


The Unexpected Hobbit

by Narsil



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 161,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2618651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narsil/pseuds/Narsil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One evening as Bilbo is looking forward to a companionable evening at the Green Dragon, a too-young, badly wounded Big Folk girl appears out of thin air. Ten years later, when Gandalf shows up at Bag End looking for a burglar things don't turn out as he expected. A retelling of "The Hobbit" with an OC taking Bilbo's place, based mostly on the movies with a great deal "borrowed" from Araceil's fabulous fanfic <i>Fate be Changed</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two chapters were originally published in my _First Chapters_ , chapter 6.
> 
> It’s ironic, considering my penname, that I haven’t written any fanfics set in Tolkien’s masterpiece, but until now I didn’t really feel the urge. I personally liked how everything turned out, and didn’t feel the need to fill in any blanks or tell any side stories. I certainly didn’t feel the need for a Tenth Walker story, as excellent as some of those could be (especially with Arwen, I’ve always been a little disappointed that in the third movie she wasn’t the one to deliver the reforged Sword That Was Broken to Aragorn, and fight by his side through the rest of the movie). Then I read _Fate be Changed_ , Araceil’s magnificent take on _The Hobbit_ at FF.net, and suddenly I found myself being assaulted by plot bunnies ... enough that I bought all the books for the current roleplaying game, set five years after the end of _The Hobbit_ , usefully enough. Still, I didn’t expect to actually write anything because the plot bunnies didn’t deviate enough from Araceil’s story. Only after awhile they did, at least I think so. This is the result.

_2931, the Third Age:_

Bilbo Baggins whistled contentedly, his thumbs hooked into his yellow waistcoat’s pockets as he strolled along the cobblestone walkway through the middle of Hobbiton. It had been a wonderful summer day: a long country walk in the morning, an afternoon with some of his favorite books, and now a happy few hours at the Green Dragon — convivial company and the _second_ finest beer in all the land of the Shire — to be finished off by a pipe of Old Toby leaf as he watched the stars come out from the seat by the front door of his own home, Bag End. Yes, it had been a magnificent day in a series of magnificent days.

He almost tripped when the scream rent the evening air, yanking him out of his reverie, then broke into a run down a side-path toward the sound along with every other male in sight, tween or adult. He couldn’t imagine what might have filled the voice of whichever woman had shrieked with such terror.

He rounded the turn around one of the standing houses and stumbled to a stop, almost knocked off his feet by one of the men running behind him, at the sight of Mrs. Elanor Bracegirdle. The gasping blonde matron’s hands were covering her mouth and the market goods from a dropped basket lay scattered about her feet ... and her eyes were fixed on a Man lying unconscious at her feet — a female, with pale skin and flame-red hair, dressed in pants and shirt covered with an oddly-mottled black, brown and gray pattern.

Then even as Bilbo stared, a feeling of Peace like he’d never known at his most contented seemed to cover the World, and the Man began to glow, shimmered, and seemed to shrink from view. Then the feeling slowly faded, leaving the gathering crowd staring at a clothes-covered lump.

Finally, Bilbo cautiously approached — though after ... whatever that feeling had been, he didn’t think there was any danger — and knelt by the lump to undo buttons on the shirt until the oddly-shrunken Man’s face was again revealed. Only now, it wasn’t a Man’s. She still had the flame-red hair and pale skin, but now her ears were as pointed as any Hobbit’s. And those ears framed a very _young_ face, was she even in her tweens?

“What’s that?” One of the children that filled the village had wriggled through the growing crush, and now the boy pointed at a growing dark stain farther down the shirt ... a dark _red_ stain.

The last of the Peace blew away with Bilbo’s shock, and he scrabbled at more of the shirt’s buttons, yanking it open. He ignored the clearly visible proof that she was very much a female, if much too thin — and that the breast band she’d been wearing no longer fit — his eyes widening at the sight of blood seeming to _gush_ from several odd, round holes in her abdomen and soaking her clothes beneath her. He shouted, “Someone fetch Mistress Bunce!” as he yanked at his waistcoat. He ignored the buttons flying everywhere as he pulled it off and bundled it up for a bandage.

/\

_Hours later:_

Rubbing at tired eyes, Bilbo leaned back in his chair beside the bed in one of his many guest rooms, now occupied by the now-a-Hobbit maiden, and set aside the belt the ... was-a-Man had been wearing. He had to admit that it was a very _handy_ belt, a series of pouches along each side filled with odds-and-ends — some recognizable, some not — and the special pouch for the ... was it a club? If so, with its odd shape and light weight, for all its fine craftsmanship it didn’t seem as practical as the belt, so he suspected he was missing something. But it was _hers_ , not his, and he set it aside. She could explain it to him when she woke up, if she chose.

He turned his attention back to his unconscious guest and reached out to hesitantly stroke the hair fanning out on her pillow, hair bleached of its vibrancy by the soft reddish light of an oil lamp, his instinctive Hobbitish wariness for the out-of-the-ordinary at war with his memory of the Peace he had felt. Mistress Bunce had tutted as she dealt with the stranger’s wounds as best she could, wondering in a low mutter what could have cause such wounds as she worked on them. She wasn’t sure if the stranger would ever wake up, and less sure that she’d last the night, but Bilbo disagreed. He didn’t know which of the Powers had brought the stranger to Hobbiton, but he was certain it was a benevolent one — and that she’d been brought for a reason. He couldn’t see how that reason, whatever it might be, could be satisfied by her dying.

A soft knock sounded through the burrow, and he hastily rose and snatched up the oil lamp to hurry to his front entrance. He pulled open the round door to reveal Marmadoc Smallburrow, the mayor of Hobbiton. “Come in, come in,” he softly said. He ushered the mayor into his dining room and poured tea and laid out some biscuits for the exhausted Hobbit.

Marmadoc finished the midnight snack with a sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair. “How is she?”

“About the same,” Bilbo replied. He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Did you find any more bodies?”

Marmadoc grimaced. “Yes, another two. That makes seven, six males and a female. All dead.” He hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly added, “Bilbo, I’m not sure what to do! This isn’t like the usual squabble between families a mayor deals with. For once, I’m wishing Gandalf was here for more than his fireworks.”

Bilbo smiled for a moment as he remembered a nighttime party of his early childhood, Gandalf in his gray robes and tall, pointed hat using the tip of his staff to light the fuses of his famous fireworks and fill the night sky with brilliant multi-colored bursts, streaks and shapes. Then he sobered as the evening’s events returned. “Yes, he’d know what to do — this kind of thing is what wizards are supposed to deal with, after all. I just never thought it could happen here.” After some thought, he said, “They were all dressed in the same odd clothing as she was, right?” When the mayor nodded, he continued, “That probably means they’re friends of hers, and the one thing Mistress Bunce was sure of was that my guest won’t be getting out of bed any time soon — not alive, anyway. So the best I can think of is to have Folco do a sketch of each body’s face and then bury them. She can use the sketches to give us names for headstones when she wakes up.”

“But what about _her_?” Marmadoc asked. He leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows resting on the table. “If she lives, what do we _do_ with her? Considering their clothing and the way they arrived I doubt we’re anywhere close to her home, and however much she looks like a Hobbit maid now she’s one of the Big Folk.”

Bilbo hesitated, considering the mayor’s words. He did have a point ... she _wasn’t_ a Hobbit, whatever her present appearance. But ... he remembered, again, his first sight of the maid’s bloodless too-thin face framed by fiery hair and Hobbit-pointed ears. _Perhaps she’s_ meant _to be here. Why else would she have changed to one of us?_ He nodded firmly, decision made.“I have plenty of rooms, she can stay with me.”

Marmadoc stared doubtfully at Bilbo. “Are you sure? You have a good reputation here in Hobbiton, and you’ll be responsible for her actions.”

“I’m sure,” Bilbo replied, face softening in wonder as he thought of the Peace he had felt. “I don’t understand much about what happened today, but the one thing I’m sure of is that she is no threat. At least, not to us.”

“I suppose we’ll just have to hope you’re right,” Marmadoc said with a shrug, before wearily dragging himself to his feet. “And now it’s time I find my own bed, morning will get here all too soon. Your suggestion about the sketches is a good one, I’ll have to look up Folco to get that done first thing so we can bury them before they start to stink.”

Bilbo saw the mayor out, then returned to the guest room to sit beside the maiden, musing over the conversation. The mayor was right, if she stayed at Bag End his reputation would be bound up in hers. Still, considering the Peace he had felt he simply could not believe she was a threat.

He leaned forward to lay a hand on her forehead, checking for the heat that signaled fever. _I wonder what color her eyes are._

/oOo\

_2932, T.A.:_

From her hiding place behind one of the trees surrounding the small clearing, a crouching Sakura Piper observed the camp in the clearing’s center, and especially the four figures wearing brown and green sitting around the small fire eating their evening meal. It was possible they were brigands, of course, but she doubted it; their clothes were too well cared for as were the bows she could see (odd bows — stubby and thick, not the longbows she’d have expected thanks to a Robin Hood movie she saw as a child). The camp was too neat, a camp of people that expected to clean up after themselves and wanted to do so with a minimum of fuss. She didn’t have any actual experience with brigands, but she’d always thought they’d be more slovenly, like the street gangs that had infested parts of her lost home’s cities — or at least, so she had heard of. Besides, here on the south border of the Shire there weren’t any traders to speak of, beyond that occasional wandering tinker.

Maybe — just maybe — she’d found the people she was looking for. And if she hadn’t, she could always run away and disappear in the wilderness.

/\

“Hello, that camp. Can I come in?”

At the high-pitched, oddly-accented voice behind him, Eradon whirled, whipping his knife from its sheath. Normally he wouldn’t have been that startled, but the voice was right behind him and in spite of his decades of experience he’d had no warning _at all!_

Behind him stood a fiery-haired Hobbit maiden and he instantly relaxed, his abrupt fear and shame vanishing. She was no threat, and even with his decades of experience as a Ranger there was no shame in being snuck up on by a Hobbit. Though she was remarkably steady for one of that shy folk, she hadn’t even flinched at the sight of his blade. And more to the point, what was she _doing_ here?

“Certainly, come on in,” he replied. He slipped his knife back in its sheath then waved a hand at a piece of log by the small fire next to where he had been sitting. “Would you like some stew? I know our meal isn’t up to the standards of a Hobbit’s dinner, but it’s tasty.”

“Sure, thanks.” The maiden cheerfully smiled at him, then circled the group to an open space on the opposite side of the fire and squatted down next to the patrol’s only female member. She accepted a bowl and spoon and dug in, ignoring his continued scrutiny as he resumed his seat.

She was definitely an odd one, and it wasn’t just her presence and lack of fear or the way she was crouched, ready to spring away at a moment’s notice. She certainly wasn’t dressed like any Hobbit maiden he’d ever seen, wearing old, worn, shirt and pants and a shabby waistcoat that, being meant for a male Hobbit, accentuated her assets rather than hid them. Then there was how _thin_ she was, both in body and face, and there was the odd almond-shape appearance of her eyes —

“You’re Sakura, aren’t you?” he blurted out without thinking, then blushed when she looked up with a grin.

“Figured it out, did you?” she responded. “How did you know? Quiet contacts with Shire folk?”

“Hi, I’m Ivorwen, and these are Eradon, Arahad and Ohtar,” Ivorwen said from beside Sakura, flashing Eradon a grin as his blush deepened at the realization he’d completely failed at common courtesy. She continued, “And we have the occasional contact with the Took at secondhand, for news of Shire happenings that might be of interest and to pass along anything odd we come across, any suggestions for how to schedule his Bounders. Your appearance out of empty air certainly fits the first category. So what are you doing here? We don’t get many visitors.”

Sakura shrugged as she continued to eat. “I was curious. It should be obvious to anyone with half a brain — no, that’s not fair, Hobbits aren’t stupid, just self-satisfied ... anyone that knows anything about history. Anyway, it should be clear that _someone_ is protecting the Shire, and I wondered who it might be. Besides, I was going stir-crazy, needed to get out for a little while. This is good stew! A lot better than the MREs I was used to in the field.”

“Yes, Arahad’s the best field cook around,” Eradon boasted, reaching to refill Sakura’s empty bowl. “What’s an MRE?”

“Meals, Ready to Eat,” Sakura answered with a laugh like tinkling chimes. “They’re light, portable, don’t need a fire and will keep you alive, but sometimes you wish they didn’t.”

“Ah, like cram,” Ohtar said, then at Sakura’s questioning look added, “Dwarvish waybread, it’s as bad as these ‘MREs’ of yours sound like. The lembas the Elves make is _much_ better.”

“Sounds like we could have used that.”

Eradon opened his mouth to ask who ‘we’ were, then remembered the Took’s report of the _other_ seven Big Folk that had appeared out of nowhere, all wearing the same oddly-patterned clothing (though the rangers had been instantly jealous when they saw one shirt, recognizing the camouflage pattern for what it was even if they’d never seen its like before) ... all dead. His mouth snapped shut.

Sakura finished off her second bowl of stew, rose to her feet and stretched as she glanced around at the shadows stretching east across the clearing, only the tops of the trees on the east side still bathed in sunlight. “Thanks again for the stew, but now that my curiosity is satisfied I have to get back.” She grimaced. “I have a lunch with the ladies of Hobbiton tomorrow, and I don’t want to be late.”

Eradon winced. “Boring, you said?”

“Yeah, small-town gossip about people I haven’t known all my life,” Sakura agreed with a sigh. “But they’re such goodhearted people, if they’re willing to put up with me, what can I do but try to put up with them?” With a wave, she turned toward the edge of the clearing.

“Sounds like you could use the occasional break,” Ivorwen said sympathetically. “Why don’t you visit occasionally?”

Sakura froze between the first trees, then turned back around. “Do you really mean it?” she asked, eyes hopeful.

“Sure,” Ivorwen responded. She glared down Arahad when he was about to speak, then continued, “We’ll be happy to have you.”

Sakura warily eyed Arahad, looked around to see if anyone else objected, then put on a thoughtful pose. “Let’s see, between housecleaning, trying to learn how to cook on a woodburning stove;” — the rangers exchanged confused glances, all with the same thought: _What other kind of stove_ is _there?_ — “weeding the vegetable and flower gardens when Master Gamgee or Hamfast is there to keep an eye on just what I’m pulling; pushing my way through dusty, old books written in a language I’m still learning and an alphabet I’m not comfortable with yet; the weekly luncheons with the ladies, practicing katas to stay in shape ... I ought to be able to squeeze you into my schedule somewhere, thank you. Around this time next week?” At their affirmatives — even Arahad — her smile seemed to light up the clearing for a moment, and then she was gone.

/\

As soon as she was out of sight of the camp Sakura dodged behind a tree, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and focused, spreading her influence through the woods around her.  _I am the wind through the trees, the flicker of shadows._ Satisfied that she wouldn't be noticed, she crept back to the edge of the camp.

“— did you invite her back?” Arahad was asking.

Ivorwen shrugged. “She’s a mystery — apparently a benign mystery, but one nonetheless. We’ll be able to learn more about her if she’s actually around — what she says, what she can do, how she acts. Besides, she seems like a sweet girl, and I think she’s lonely. From the clothes she and the others were wearing when they arrived, I suspect we’ll understand her better than the Hobbits she’s living among ever can ... farmers and crafters the lot of them, whatever their ability to rise to the occasion when needs must, and while those lives can sometimes be _dangerous_ , they aren’t _violent_. I think her life before coming here was anything but peaceful, and she could use some friends that get it.”

Sakura silently snuck away until she was well away from the clearing, then rose to her feet, let her cloak of Invisibility relax, and headed north toward Hobbiton and the next day’s luncheon. In spite of the nighttime walk ahead of her, she found herself softly singing a cheery tune as she strode along.

/oOo\

_2936, T.A.:_

“— don’t know what we are going to do about Marigold,” Mentha Hornblower said sorrowfully. “This is the third engagement broken off, and there won’t be another. This time it was Hugo that broke it, not her — and the rumor is it’s because he caught her naked with Isembard. We don’t need another Myrtle, having a girl that bounces from man to man or even rents herself out is bad for the community. And that’s not to think of her children — and there will almost certainly _be_ children, a girl that’s no better than she has to be is usually careless with the herbs.”

Camellia Twofoot glanced sideways at Sakura where she sat sipping her tea, dressed in her brilliantly blue best dress, with green ribbons her hair. As nonchalantly as the matron could manage, she asked, “How would your people have dealt with this, Sakura dear? Would this be normal enough to ... have a typical way to fix it?”

Sakura sighed softly, only barely stopping from rolling her eyes. While she was ostensibly accepted by all of the seven matrons present, that tolerance enforced by Mistress Daisy Greenhand, Camellia had been pushing the limits from the time she had joined Hobbiton’s matrons in their regular meetings (ostensibly for training in how Hobbit society worked, but she’d had her doubts from the start). “No,” she patiently said, “I’ve already told you we were less ... united, socially, each family managing its own affairs. So even though proper people would have much the same view of Marigold’s behavior as Hobbits, there would have been nothing we could do about it.”

“ ‘The same views’, really? Even for the warriors?” Camellia asked primly, her faint smirk vanishing behind her tea cup.

Suddenly, Sakura had had enough. She carefully set down her tea cup and saucer. “Let’s pretend you asked what you _really_ want to know — what _I_ was like — and I’ll tell you,” she said coldly, her normally laughing eyes hard. “I made Marigold look like a perfect maiden. From the age of fifteen until my arrival here, I can’t tell you how many men I went to bed with.” Then her eyes dropped, voice softening as she added, “Things look very different ... when you’re fifteen and convinced that you won’t live to see your eighteenth birthday.”

She kept her eyes fixed on the table in the sudden ringing silence that filled the room, until she felt a soft touch on one hand from the chubby blonde matron sitting next to her, and looked up into Rose Sackville’s sympathetic eyes.

Mistress Greenhand cleared her throat. “We are getting away from the issue,” she said firmly. “I’ve checked my mother’s diaries for the last time this happened before Myrtle. We need talk to Isembard’s parents. Since he has ruined any chance that another family will consider Marigold for their sons, he should take on the engagement....”

/\

Sakura stay seated as the luncheon broke up, gazing into her teacup, waiting as quietly as she had been through the remainder of the discussion.

Finally, Mistress Greenhand returned from seeing off the rest of the group and dropped into the seat across from her, picking up one of the few cookies left behind to nibble on. “So what’s significant about turning eighteen?”

“What?” Sakura looked up. “Oh, among my people that’s the age a child becomes an adult.”

“Really.” Mistress Greenhand’s eyebrows rose. “That young? No period as a tween?”

“No,” Sakura said with a smile, shaking her head. “By the time we turn thirty-three most are married with a one or two children, at least.”

“Oh my, tweens raising children. And you weren’t even a tween, with an adult’s life forced on you. I can’t imagine how desperate your people must have been, to do what they did to you.” She shifted her gaze to stare at the wall behind Sakura for a long moment, eyes haunted as she undoubtedly tried to think of anything that could push the Shire to such need, then pushed aside the half-formed nightmare she was contemplating. Refocusing on Sakura, she dryly asked, “I hope you are regularly taking the herbs I gave you, at least?”

Sakura grinned. “Yes, but only for holding off my time of month. Bilbo wouldn’t dream of ‘forcing’ his attentions on a guest, and the few that have ... _inquired_ have simply been too immature to interest me. Besides, I have my reputation to think of. And Bilbo’s, since I’m his guest.” _Something I should have thought of before I mouthed off_ , she thought with a wince. “Maybe ... maybe I should skip the next luncheon?”

Mistress Greenhand suppressed a smile as she remembered the gold ring she’d seen Bilbo playing with once, and glared sternly at her guest. “No! No, you _will_ be here next week, as normal, Sakura Piper!”

“But after what I said —”

Mistress Greenhand sighed. “Yes, Camellia and Asphodel will take it poorly, but Rose, Pervinca and Elanor understand and Mentha is willing to follow my lead. And more important, as odd as you are they like you. They will be able to counter the stories Camellia, at least, is sure to spread. But only if you are still meeting with us.”

“Oh ... so I’ve been meeting with you for five years now to ...” Her voice trailed off, and Mistress Greenhand finished for her.

“To try to convince everyone that you’re one of us ... well, somewhat. Not an Outsider, at least.” The old matron sighed. “It has been ... a bit of a success. At least the mothers trust you with their children, long enough to tell a few stories.”

“Long enough to get their shopping at the market done, at least. I’d imagine that explains a big part of it.” Sakura smiled at the thought of the horde of eager children that would corner her when she visited the market, begging for another story, then rose to her feet. “I’d better be on my way. We ran a little long today, by now Bilbo will be wondering where I am.”

“Yes, he will.” Mistress Greenhand rose stiffly to her feet to show Sakura out, and gazed speculatively after her, following the fiery blaze of afternoon sun on the girl’s hair up the Hill to the luxurious burrow that was Bag End. _I wonder how long until you are the mistress of Bag End in name as well as in truth?_ True, Bilbo was almost twice her age and it would be over a decade before they could marry, but none of the other eligible maids in Hobbiton — or any of the other villages around — had caught his eye. Yes, they would be a good match ... if she stayed long enough.

The oldest matron in Hobbiton laughed softly to herself as she closed her door and called out for her great-granddaughter and her friends to come down and help clean up. Walking back to supervise the thundering herd, she muttered, “You are getting to be as nosy an old biddy as Asphodel, they’ll do as they wish and it’s no business of yours. Still, trust the son of Belladonna Took to fall for a girl just like his mother, however respectable he may seem.” There was some hope in that, now that she thought about it. Belladonna _had_ settled down, after all. Eventually.


	2. An Unexpected Party

_2941, T.A.:_

“I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure.”

Bilbo stared in shock at the tall, long-bearded, ancient Man leaning on his staff, that had interrupted his blissful morning blowing smoke rings ( _outside_ of Bag End — even if it hadn’t been a beautiful day, Sakura had made it clear without saying a word that she didn’t approve of smoking inside the burrow). Even the Man’s mode of dress was odd, a gray robe rather than pants and shirt, and he was made even taller than he already was by a gray, pointed hat covering his long white hair. But it wasn’t the strangely familiar Man’s appearance that rendered Bilbo momentarily speechless, but what he’d just said. _He’s here for Sakura!_ Thankfully, she was off on one of her visits to her ranger friends.

“In an adventure?” the earth-haired Hobbit finally managed to say. “No, I don’t imagine that anyone west of Bree would have much interest in adventures. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. Make you late for dinner. Good morning.” Bilbo rose from his bench just inside the wood fence fronting the stone-paved path that ran past his round, green front door. He walked along to his mailbox and pulled out the morning’s delivery and looked through the envelopes, studiously ignoring his unwanted visitor in the hope that the Man would take the hint and go away.

But the Man didn’t take the hint, instead ruefully shaking his head. In a deep, gravelly voice, he said, “To think I should have lived to be good morninged by Belladonna Took’s son, as if I was selling buttons at the door.”

Wait ... his mother? This Man had known his mother?! Almost against his will, Bilbo looked up again at that craggy, weather-beaten face. “I beg your pardon.”

“You’ve changed, and not entirely for the better, Bilbo Baggins.”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“You know my name, though you don’t remember I belong to it. I’m Gandalf, and Gandalf means me.”

“Not Gandalf the wandering wizard that made such excellent fireworks? Old Took used to have them on Midsummer’s Eve! I had no idea you were still in business.” _Now_ , Bilbo abruptly knew where he had seen this Man before, a Man he hadn’t thought of since the days just after Sakura had appeared out of nowhere. Then he had wished for Gandalf’s presence, to solve the mystery that was his unwanted guest and to take her off his hands. Now ... one hand went to the pocket where he kept his mother’s engagement ring.

“And where else should I be?” Gandalf huffed. “I’m pleased to find you remember something about me, even if it’s only my fireworks.” He thoughtfully gazed at the increasingly nervous Hobbit, then nodded decisively. “Well, that’s decided. It will be very good for you, and most amusing for me. I shall inform the others.”

“What?” Bilbo gaped. Gandalf was talking about _him_? _Not_ Sakura? “No, no, wait,” he babbled, “we do not want any adventures here, not today.” He winced. _We?_ “I suggest you try over the Hill or across the Water. Good morning.” He bolted for his door, slamming and locking it behind him. Back flat against the wall, he shuffled along to the nearest window and leaned around to glance outside, then slumped in relief to see the gray-clad back of Gandalf vanishing around the bend in the path that circled around the Hill.

/oOo\

Eradon watched in awe from the underbrush as Sakura crept on bare, crimson-furred feet toward the browsing herd of deer. Oh, he wasn’t surprised by her silence — she _was_ a Hobbit, after all — but she was also well away from the edge of the clearing, and however little a profile she might present with the way she was crouched she was also in plain sight. Yet even though several of the deer had looked straight at her, none of them had so much as twitched in alarm.

Then came the part he hated with a passion: she had decided she was close enough and sprang forward toward her target, one of the young bucks. A quick rush, one prodigious leap (for a Hobbit), and she landed on the buck’s back. Even as it started to whirl in place as the rest of the deer in the clearing bolted, she threw herself forward between its still-small rack of horns and her knife flashed across the buck’s throat. Then she was throwing herself back and off, tucking to roll across the meadow grass even as the buck collapsed, kicking and spraying blood from severed arteries.

Eradon ran forward, heart in his throat, then relaxed with a sigh of relief as Sakura rose to her feet — she’d pulled it off yet again. The two stood side by side in companionable silence as they waited for the buck to stop moving. When it was well and truly dead, he gave her a moment to walk forward alone and place a gentle hand on its head in regret and thanks, then the pair quickly went to work skinning the carcass and carving out and wrapping up cuts of meat in the skin for transport back to camp. He eyed her knife as they worked, a blade made to her own specifications by a blacksmith in Bree and more a shortsword (again for a Hobbit), and a vicious-looking thing with its reinforced back and single edge except for the double-edged curved tip. That blade was made for more than skinning carcasses, and now all the rangers had one like it.

“You know, it still amazes me to watch you practically _walk_ up to the deer like that,” he said conversationally as they finished up. Sakura glanced up from where she was wiping her knife clean of blood before returning it to its sheath. “You say that every time,” she said with a grin for their now-traditional routine. “It’s still a family Art that I’ll be teaching to any future husband if he wishes and my children if and when I have any, and no one else.”

He sighed with theatrical regret, delighting in her tinkling laughter at his traditional response. Then as nonchalantly as he could manage he asked, “Have you considered starting to use your bow for hunting? Your skill for archery has really improved.”

Sakura’s gaze sharpened, then softened as she noticed his forced ease. “Watching me stalking dinner bothers you that much?” she asked softly, then shook her head without waiting for a reply. “No. At least, not yet. I need to keep in practice with my Art. Besides, I’m not _that_ good a shot yet, and I’d rather not waste a goodly part of an afternoon tracking down a wounded buck because I missed my shot. Not when I could spend it on other things like ... oh, I don’t know ... practicing my archery?” She grinned at Eradon’s rueful laughter, then slung her share of the skin-wrapped meat up over a shoulder. “Now let’s head back to camp, so I can get started on that practice and you all can tell me the latest news — in Quenya this time, for practice. You never know when I might need to talk to some Elf,” she finished with a grin.

/oOo\

Bilbo all but slunk out of the front door of Bag End, head twisting as he looked all around for the huge, gray-clad visitor of the morning. He almost hadn’t left the house, he’d been so shaken by the earlier encounter, but in the end had decided he was being foolish — if Gandalf chose to return, Bilbo couldn’t think of how he could keep the wizard out.

Besides, the Hobbit had a hankering for fish, and with Sakura (thankfully) away visiting her ranger friends he could indulge in the day’s catch from the closest river without making her nauseous and have the burrow aired out by the time she got back the next morning.

So he made his nervous way down the Hill to the market, without catching so much as a glimpse of Gandalf — a good thing, too, since as soon as he reached the market he was mobbed by children, demanding to know where Sakura was and disappointed to learn that she wouldn’t be joining them. It was the work of a few minutes to shoo them back to their mothers, and he soon had his fish wrapped up and was headed back home. So far, so good. Now he could only hope that Gandalf had taken his rejection seriously and moved on to look elsewhere.

That night, when he answered the knock on his door just as he was sitting down to enjoy his fish, and found a massive, tattooed, armored and heavily armed Dwarf on his doorstep, his heart sank as he realized that he had hoped in vain.

/oOo\

Sakura yawned as she walked through the dark up to Bag End, the stone-paved path hard under her weary feet. She had mentally kicked herself for her decision to return that evening several times during the long walk, but once started she had been determined to finish it and now finish it she finally had.

She unlatched the door and stepped through, careful not to trip over the circular opening, and gratefully swung the backpack full of fresh meat along with bow and arrow-filled quiver off of shoulders still sore from her archery practice. _At least I’m improving_ , she thought, .then gagged slightly at the smell wafting through the burrow, a mix of fish and pipe smoke. Yes, she _definitely_ should have spent the night with the rangers and given Bilbo a chance to air out the burrow before she returned. Ah, well, too late now, she’d just have to remember in the future.

“Bilbo, I’m back, with enough —”

She broke off as her tired mind _finally_ registered the presence of one old Man and thirteen Dwarves, all staring at her along with an unhappy Hobbit. She stared back at everyone staring at her then, pitching her voice lower, said, “So, Bilbo, will you introduce me to your ... friends?”

/\

“ ... and Thorin Oakenshield.”

Sakura’s eyes widened at that last name in the series of introductions. The identification of the Man as Gandalf hadn’t been too much of a surprise, she’d had her ranger friends’ description to go by (he played a rather prominent role in some of the stories they’d told her), but Oakenshield’s came as a shock.

She bowed in her seat, cudgeling her mind for the proper polite response, then when the once-mentioned in passing phrase failed to come mentally shrugged. “So, what brings thirteen Dwarves and the Gray Wanderer to Bag End?” she asked instead.

Thorin glowered. “Our business is with Mr. Baggins. We have need of a burglar.” He motioned toward a white-haired and -bearded Dwarf — Balin — and the other Dwarf reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a folded-up sheet of paper.

For a long moment Sakura simply sat and stared, trying to make the words ‘Baggins’ and ‘burglar’ fit in the same sentence and failing miserably. For that matter, ‘burglar’ and ‘Oakenshield’ didn’t go together any better. “Just what does the king of Erebor in Exile want with a _burglar_?” she demanded, reaching out to accept the offered paper.

Thorin’s ire eased as an eyebrow raised. He leaned back in his chair and gazed at her contemplatively. Finally, he said, “The time has come for the Dwarves to reclaim our home.”

For the first time in years a wave of homesickness washed over her, as she remembered a century-old ranch house, wide open star-filled sky with the promise of rain in the clouds rolling in, a trip up into the mountains for sledding and while the men folk picked out a Christmas tree, her parents and older brothers and sisters, laughter and love around the dinner table....

With an effort that almost left her shaking, she thrust her childhood memories from before the War aside to focus on the present, and the Dwarves that inhabited it ... and frowned as she finally _looked_ at them — as individuals and not just Dwarves. Yes, there were a few warriors among them, the one with tattoos across the top of his head — Dwalin? — was one, certainly, and the story behind Oakenshield’s nickname proved his own qualities. And the young ones (at least, she _thought_ they were young) were trained. But the rest ...

“You obviously aren’t planning on a frontal assault,” she finally said with a wry smile, “so just what do you need recovered” — the rangers’ stories had Oakenshield’s greatest fault a prickly, stiff, unyielding sense of honor that epitomized the Country song lyrics ‘If I didn’t earn it I don’t want it’, so there was no way he actually wanted to _steal_ anything — “and what does it have to do with taking on a Dragon?”

/\

Thorin had to admit that he was reluctantly impressed with the addition to the evening’s discussions. He had been very _under_ whelmed by their host when he had first arrived. If it hadn’t been for Gandalf, he would have stormed out as soon as he got a good look at Mr. Baggins ... well, that and they desperately _needed_ a burglar, but the more he saw of him the more he wondered just what Gandalf was thinking. Mr. Piper, though, was a seam of _very_ different quality ore.

Oh, he was as stunningly beautiful as Mr. Baggins (was that how Men saw those anorexic pointy-eared noses-in-the-air self-important Elves?), though more modestly dressed in his leathers. Too thin for _real_ beauty, but his ruby hair and sparkling lapis lazuli eyes added to his childlike size to make any Dwarf that saw him instantly protective.

Not that he was likely to take any offer of protection well. By the knife on his belt, the bow and quiver slung on the backpack he had set aside, the way he moved, and the way he had obviously just sized up the company, Thorin suspected that this was the first Hobbit he’d seen that could take care of himself.

And he knew what questions to ask, and Thorin doubted he’d be able to get away with the partial answers and misdirections that dealing with Men had taught him. And Mr. Piper was patiently waiting for those answers.

Finally, Thorin reluctantly growled, “We seek the Arkenstone. With it, I can command the service of the army I will need to defeat the Dragon.”

“And this ‘Arkenstone’ is somewhere in Smaug’s horde?” At Thorin’s curt nod the Hobbit smiled cheerfully. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He ignored the stirring among the Dwarves as some took offense at his cheek, and looked toward to Gandalf.

/\

Gandalf was actually finding it somewhat difficult to focus on the discussion, so fascinating did he find that discussion’s interlocutor. He had never imagined that a Hobbit like Mr. Sakura (and where had _that_ name come from?) Piper could possibly exist, not here in the Shire — outside of perhaps the Took. Worse, it had been too long since he had visited the Shire, or even west of the Misty Mountains. In his absence Belladonna Baggins — his best source of information for happenings in the Shire — had died too young, and that long absence meant he hadn’t had the opportunity to cultivate a new one.

Not that he had truly _needed_ a source before now, beyond a chance to rest his soul among a simpler, happier people that looked on him with a mildly tolerant suspicion rather that awe — to delight in their small affairs and forget about the fate of all of the peoples of Middle Earth for a time.

But as a result he had been blindsided time and again: by the too-early death of his friend; by the changes in her son from an adventurous youngling always running off on the mini-adventures possible for the very young to the staid, satisfied, _settled_ mature Hobbit’s Hobbit; and then by the existence of Bilbo’s _very_ unusual friend, and the obvious trust Bilbo put in him. It had become rapidly obvious that if Sakura wasn’t satisfied with the answer to the equally obvious question, then Bilbo wouldn’t be going.

Then he got blindsided yet again.

Sakura leaned back in his chair and gazed speculatively at the wizard for a few moments before asking, “Why you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why are you involved in this?” He waved at the numerous Dwarves. “Their motivation is obvious, but you?”

“And why wouldn’t I be involved?” he asked. “Is it not a worthy quest?”

“Certainly,” Sakura agreed. “But while I’ve heard all about the wonderful fireworks of Gandalf the Wizard from the Hobbits, the rangers’ tales of Mithrandir — the Gray Wanderer — are rather different. You are a busy man, and however powerful you may be a day for you is as long — or as short — as it is for us. You wouldn’t be a part of a quest this long without a reason. So what is it?”

Intrigued, Gandalf cocked an eyebrow. He’d caught the reference to ‘the’ Hobbits, as if Sakura wasn’t one, however covered his feet had been with fiery fur-like hair when he’d walked through the door. And then there was the mention of the rangers — there were Hobbits that knew of their guardians just beyond their borders, but they were few. Yes, this Hobbit was definitely a mystery, but he was also right ... there was only so much time in a day, and he was likely one mystery that the wizard wouldn’t have time to explore for months, perhaps years.

A regretful Gandalf sighed softly, before answering. “I, too, am concerned about the Dragon,” he admitted. “There is an Evil rising in the world, and it is likely to strike from South and East. If Smaug is allied to that Evil, the results will be catastrophic.”

Sakura’s gaze sharpened, then he nodded. “And with Smaug gone and a King once again Under the Mountain — and almost certainly a refounded Dale — not only is a weakness in your defense eliminated but you’re stronger than ever.”

Then before the Wizard could respond he asked the question Gandalf _had_ been expecting and trying to come up with an answer for. “So why Bilbo?” Gandalf thought he could see humor lurking in the Hobbit's eyes, reflecting in the lamp-light. “I know all about the two abiding flaws of wizards, but I also know all about Need To Know,” — (Gandalf could hear the capitalization) — “and I need to know.”

“And just what are a Wizard’s ‘two abiding flaws’?”

Yes, the impish grin that spread across Sakura’s face definitely was not feigned as he replied, “An unfortunate tendency to deal in half-truths and misdirections, and an equally unfortunate tendency to meddle.” Thorin snorted, remembering his encounter with Gandalf in Bree that had been the catalyst for their adventure, as several of the other Dwarves grinned, and Sakura’s smile broadened. “Well?” he asked again, laughter in his voice.

Gandalf chuckled ruefully for a moment — it had been a _long_ time since someone had so thoroughly set him on his back foot, with a smile all the while — then shrugged. “I am afraid I don’t know,” he admitted.

“What?!” The exclamation burst from several throats, including Bilbo’s, but Thorin quieted them with a sharp glance before turning back to glare at Gandalf. “Explain,” he growled.

“Sometimes, when considering a problem, I receive ... premonitions, hints of what I will need,” Gandalf replied. “I expected the Elders to reject your call to assemble the armies to deal with the Dragon — you have not yet recovered from your losses outside the gates of the mines of Moria, and they will not wish to incur even more.” He paused when Thorin flinched — that battle had given the king in exile his title of ‘Oakenshield’ when he had lost his shield and picked up a wide oak branch to replace it, but it had also cost him his grandfather and younger brother. But when Thorin didn’t say anything the Wizard continued. “I knew that we would need the Arkenstone to give you the authority to overcome the Elders’ refusal, and so would need a burglar. While I was ruminating on who might fill that need, the thought of Bag End came to me with the crystal clarity of a true premonition.”

Before Thorin could respond, Sakura spoke up, his good cheer vanished. “Gandalf, your premonitions — do they give you _new_ knowledge, or simply focus on what you already know that’s important?”

Gandalf looked over at the Hobbit, his interest again piqued at the question. “The latter,” he replied. “You are familiar with such foretellings?”

“No, not personally,” Sakura said, “but I had a friend that did.” He paused, eyes darkening with memory, then started when Bilbo laid a hand on his arm. He forced a smile for his friend, then refocused on Gandalf. “Jason hated them, said it was like finding anonymous letters in his mailbox, with no return address and full of cryptic nonsense — that he might only understand in retrospect, or never make sense of at all. But they did prove useful from time to time.

“But you said that your premonition involved Bag End, _not_ Bilbo?”

“Yessss, I did,” Gandalf said slowly, realizing where Sakura was going. From the way Thorin straightened, so did he. And so did Bilbo, from the way the son of his old friend seemed to shrink down in his seat.

“And you didn’t know about me,” Sakura said. At the choking sound coming from Bilbo, he gripped his friend’s hand for a moment before unfolding the contract. “It seems you have your burglar.”


	3. For a Dancer

Bilbo managed to stay silent as he and Sakura settled the Dwarves on bed and couch and floor throughout the burrow. But finally the thirteen Dwarves and one Wizard and been settled for the night and the venison she’d brought moved to the cool room, and when Sakura turned toward her own room he caught her arm. “We need to talk, my room,” he murmured.

Sakura silently nodded and followed Bilbo one door down from her bedroom to his own.

Once the two were inside and the door closed, Sakura waited patiently as Bilbo lit several candles in wall sconces with the oil lamp he carried. Candles lit, he set his oil lamp down on a side table next to hers and stared out at his own reflection cast up on his window by the candles for long minutes, fingers playing again with something in his waistcoat pocket, before turning to face her. “I don’t want you to go. Steal from a _Dragon_! The stories say they know every coin in their hoard, they’re ever watchful, you can’t _do_ this, you’ll be _killed!_ ”

“No, I won’t.” Sakura stepped forward and reached up to lay her hands on Bilbo’s shoulders. “Bilbo, you’ve only seen me here in the Shire ... at _peace_. You’ve never seen me hunting, you have no idea how sneaky I can be when I have to be. Besides, we’ll have Gandalf with us, he wouldn’t waste his time and our lives on a hopeless mission, we can _do_ this. And we _have_ to. If Gandalf is right about an Evil rising — and I’m not going to gainsay _that_ Wizard — if it isn’t stopped east of the Misty Mountains, there’s certainly nothing _west_ of them that’ll hold it back. Away from the Shire.

“I have to do this.”

Bilbo’s shoulders sagged, but he nodded. “I knew you were going to say something like that,” he grumbled, gaze dropping to the floor. “You _will_ come back?”

“Oh, Bilbo, of course I will! What would I be without my best friend?” She shifted one hand from shoulder to chin to lift his head so she could look him in the eyes. “What would you do without me?” she asked with as reassuring a smile as she could manage. “I hate to think what Bag End is going to be like when I get back, I don’t know how you ever did without me.”

Bilbo managed a brief chuckle before asking, “You promise?”

“I promise.” Sakura pulled him into a hug. “And you know I _always_ keep my promises.”

Bilbo clutched at the smaller Hobbit, faced buried in her hair, and the two simply stood there in each other’s embrace for long minutes before Bilbo reluctantly let her go and stepped back, expression serious. “But before you go, there’s something I want to ask you.” He dipped his fingers into the pocket he habitually played with, extended his hand to her. There was a plain gold ring in his palm. “When you get back, will you marry me?”

Sakura stared at him, shocked to her core. “Bilbo ... you don’t have to ... I promised I’ll come back ...”

He shook his head. “It’s not that. Like you said, you keep your promises. I’ve wanted to ask you for years but you’re ... not my guest, you’re much more than that, but you had nowhere else to go. I didn’t want you to feel you _owe_ me ... anyway, I finally decided to wait until your thirty-third birthday when you’d be done with your tweens. But now ...”

His voice trailed off as she stared at him, her thoughts racing scattershot. She could barely remember a time, before the War, when she had dreamed of becoming a wife, a _partner_ on a small home ranch of her own, with a handful of children (in more ways than one) that she could scold and pamper and teach the Family Art and watch grow up to lives and families of their own. That dream had died — murdered by the horrors of the War, with the certainty of her death and her hands dripping with blood — and the decade of peace since finding herself in a new world hadn’t brought it back to life. Her status as a semi-Outsider had seen to that, what Hobbit would want a maid as bizarre as her for a wife? And she refused to pretend to be someone else just to catch a husband — if she did, the act would go on for the _rest of her life!_

But now ... _Bilbo is ... not who I would have picked, but he_ knows _me. And he’s a good friend — a good_ man _. We’re already practically husband and wife ... well, except for the_ good _part ... and he’d be a good father —_

His hand curled into a fist around the ring and began to fall, and she hastily reached out to catch it. She gently pried open his unresisting fingers and picked up the ring. “If you’re willing to put up with the inevitable whispers, I’ll be happy to marry you,” she whispered, then threw her arms around her new fiancé and spun him around, laughing as tears ran down her cheeks. She was going to have a _family_ again! She had a _future!_

Finally slowing down their impromptu spinning dance to a stop, she staggered dizzily for a moment before recovering her balance and sliding the ring onto her middle finger, eyes widening rising when it fit perfectly. “How did you know my ring size?”

Bilbo grinned. “Remember the time you tried on my mother’s jewelry?” he asked. “I noticed which rings fit, and when I finally worked up the courage to decide to ask you and needed to resize my mother’s engagement ring, well ...” He shrugged.

“Smart man.” Sakura grinned at her fiancé, then paused as a thought struck her — he _was_ her fiancé. She briefly considered the long day that was to come, the already late hour, and mentally shrugged. She could catch up on her sleep on the road — one advantage to ponies was that if the pony knew where it was going, one could let _it_ do the ‘driving’.

She stepped close to Bilbo and with one hand on his shoulder stood on tip-toe to whisper in his ear with a voice gone husky, even as the other hand began to work at the buttons of his waistcoat. “You know, Bilbo, we can’t actually start our family until I get back and we’re married, but now that we’re engaged we can ... practice.”

/oOo\

Sakura cracked open her eyes and without moving glanced toward the night outside the bedroom window — and if her internal alarm still worked, the brief lightening of false dawn. Only one hour until dawn.

She slipped Bilbo’s arm from where it was draped across her waist and sat up, then simply sat for a minute and gazed smiling down at the dark-shrouded lump that was her husband-to-be. It hadn’t been the most exciting night she’d ever spent with a man, not by a long shot — it had been Bilbo’s first time so she had been as much a teacher as a lover, and for her it had been a long ten years. She had perhaps been a little ... overeager. But if it hadn’t been the _best_ sex she’d ever had, it had certainly been the _happiest_. So perhaps it _had_ been the best, from a certain point of view.

But now it was time to leave.

With a reluctant sigh, she slipped out of the bed (hissing at the pull of sore muscles — it _had_ been ten years) and made certain the blankets were tucked tight around her fiancé before gathering up her scattered clothes from the previous evening by memory and feeling about in the dark. She eased open the round bedroom and peaked out at the hallway — as black as midnight without windows letting in the faint false dawn, the only sounds the snoring of Dwarves. She eased out into the hallway and silently closed the door, then scurried down the pitch-black hall to the washroom for a quick soap and wipedown, then back up the hall to her bedroom door and slipped inside. Quick work with matches and candles, and she threw on a robe and began to search through drawers and chest for what she’d need for the journey.

The packing didn’t take long — the tinderbox to supplement the matches, a whetstone, some changes of clothes, a heavier cloak than she had worn the previous day (even in late April it could get chilly at night, and there was a mountain range to cross). Her knife and bow and quiver of arrows were still out in the hall. Which left one last task before she left her room.

She pulled a box buried the bottom of a chest and opened it to pull out her Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol, and its last five bullets. When her squadmates had been buried, before she even first woke up to find herself in a new world, the Hobbits had buried what equipment they’d had left with them — including their guns and whatever ammo was left — and she’d never been tempted to ask that the graves be dug up so she could acquire them. What would she need more bullets for in the peaceful Shire? She’d thrown her own equipment in the River — the only reason she still had her pistol was because Bilbo had stuck it in a drawer after examining it, and forgotten it was there. _And you weren’t necessarily wrong_ , she thought as she examined the last piece of her previous life. _Can you even fire it? Now that you’re child-sized the recoil is going to be brutal. And noisy to boot, when we’re dealing with a sleeping Dragon_. But a weapon was a weapon, and she sighed as she spread out the gun’s cleaning kit on a rag laid out on the floor and began taking the pistol apart for its first cleaning in years.

So engrossed did she become in the barely-remembered task that she didn’t realize that her bedroom door had been eased open until she heard a choking sound and glanced up to find the handsome, dark-haired, trimmed-bearded Dwarf she’d been introduced to the previous evening — Fili? Kili? one of the two nephews of Thorin, anyway — standing in the doorway staring at her. Only not at her face, and she glanced down to find that her robe had fallen open. _Great. Just ... great._

She put down the barrel she had been wiping clean and rose to her feet. “Well, come in and close the door before you wake everyone up,” she said with a resigned sigh as she rebelted her robe. “Are you Fili or Kili?”

The dazed Dwarf stepped into the room and closed the door. Finally he burst out, “You’re female!”

“You noticed,” Sakura responded dryly. “So, Fili or Kili?”

“Oh, sorry. Kili.” She thought he was blushing, but in the flickering candlelight she couldn’t really tell.

“I’m honored to meet you, Master Kili,” she said, bowing as formally as she could wearing only a bathrobe. (She didn’t know if Dwarves even knew what a curtsy was, and even if they did she wasn’t going to try it as ... lightly dressed as she was.) “Can I ask you to keep my actual sex a secret?”

By now he’d recovered from the shock, and the Dwarf slouched back against the wall with his arms crossed and smirked, asking, “Why would such a beauty wish to hide her charms?”

 _Oooh,_ this _one knows how handsome he is_. Sakura stepped closer and crossed her arms with a huff. “I cannot _possibly_ fit Dwarvish standards of beauty! I’m too short, too thin, I don’t have muscles on muscles or a beard. And if your uncle knows I’m female, will he allow me to join you?”

“Actually, you would make a very becoming Dwarfling,” Kili replied with a grin, then yelped when she lightly punched his arm. “Violent, though,” he added, ostentatiously rubbing the spot where she’d hit him. “But you’re right, we Dwarves are _very_ protective of our women, only a third of births are female and not all women marry. And the fact that you really do ... well, _feel_ like a child doesn’t help. You’re probably right, if my uncle knew you were female he wouldn’t allow you to come.”

“And you _need_ a burglar. You need _me_.”

“True. All right, I’ll keep your secret.” He straightened and waved at the disassembled pistol on the floor. “What’s that?”

Sakura looked down, then sat down to finish her task (being careful, this time, to make sure her robe stayed closed). “This, Master Dwarf, is a weapon.”

“You can leave off the ‘Master’s, I’m not experienced enough for that. It’s just Kili.” He crouched across the rag from her, examining the various pieces. “That’s a very _odd_ weapon.”

“Have you ever seen a skilled slinger?” When Kili nodded, Sakura held up a bullet. “This is like a sling’s bullet, the rest of these pieces are for a device that ‘throws’ the bullet _very_ hard, _very_ fast.”

“Really? Can you show me later?”

“I’m afraid not.” Sakura put the bullet back down with the other four. “These are all the bullets I have left. Once they’re gone, I’ll be left with an oddly-shaped paperweight.”

“Too bad. Maybe I’ll get a chance to see how it works during the journey.” He rose to his feet. “But the reason I walked in on you is because everyone else is getting up and starting breakfast.”

“All right, I’ll be out as soon as I finish here.”

“I’ll tell the others. But perhaps you might want to dress first, before someone else walks in on you.” He suddenly grinned down at her. “Though it is truly a pity to hide such beauty.”

“Out, now!”

With a laugh the young Dwarf turned and was gone.

/oOo\

Sakura knocked on the round door to Mistress Daisy Greenhand’s house, ignoring Kili on his pony behind her. When she announced that she couldn’t leave immediately with the rest of the party — since she hadn’t planned on packing up and leaving at a moment’s notice she had a letter to write and visits to make, notifications of her change in plans — Thorin had insisted that one of the Dwarves stay with her. She didn’t know if it was because he didn’t trust her to actually join them (and if so, just how did he think he could keep her from sneaking away later? — she was their _burglar_!) or if he was treating her like a child, but either way she didn’t like it.

Fortunately, Kili had volunteered to be the one to stay, so after writing a letter for Bilbo to deliver to her ranger friends — and his repeated reassurances that, yes, thanks to his one visit he could find them — she had been able to give her fiancé a proper (and on her part slightly sniffly, to her chagrin and Kili’s amusement) farewell hug.

And now for her second farewell.

“I got it! I got it!” Sakura smiled at the shout from Lily, one of Daisy’s grandchildren that haunted her storytellings, followed by the sound of running feet and the clack of the latch being pushed up. Then door creaked open, and the child’s eyes widened at finding Sakura on the doorstep. She whirled to race back into the house, yelling, “Grandmama! It’s Sakura!”

“Really, child, you don’t need to shout it to the neighborhood. Mind your man —” The matron (noticeably more stoop-shouldered than when Sakura had first met her ten years before) rounded the corner of the short hallway and froze at the sight of Sakura dressed in her ranger cloak and leathers with her bowie knife on one hip and an oddly-shaped closed pouch on the other. Then at a snort of suppressed laughter she looked over Sakura’s shoulder (not hard, even bent over with age she was taller) and her jaw dropped at the sight of Kili on his pony, all black leather and chain armor and bedecked with weapons, holding the reins to her pony in one hand. “Oh my!” she gasped, and her eyes flashed back to the tween that she had treated as any daughter. “Sakura, what is going on?” she demanded, her face stern as she walked the last few steps to the doorway.

Sakura took a step back. “I, well, I ... ummm ... I won’t be able to make it to the luncheon tomorrow?”

“ _Just_ tomorrow?” Daisy asked, looking her up and down, her gaze lingering on her bowie knife before reaching out to finger the material of her cloak.

“Well ...” Sakura ducked her and knocked about a loose piece of the cobblestone path with her bare toes, feeling like the time she was eleven and had been sent home with a note from her home room teacher about a prank she’d played that had gone bad.

Finally, Daisy sighed. “I wondered if the day would come when you would run off on an adventure.”

At that, Sakura straightened, eyes abruptly hard. “Adventures are for dreamers. I have a mission.” She hesitated, then added, “It might be the reason I’m here at all.”

“Of course,” Daisy replied, “I should have known — should have realized. I am sorry.”

After a moment Sakura shrugged. “No harm, no foul,” she said (one of the odd little colloquialisms the children had been picking up from her). “I know how poorly most Hobbits think of ‘excitement’, it was the natural assumption.”

“Perhaps but it was still lazy of me, I know _you_ better than that.” She paused for a moment, then hesitantly asked, “And will you be returning from your ... ‘mission’?”

“I have to.” Sakura held up her hand, displaying the ring Bilbo had given her. “I promised.”

Daisy actually _squeed_ , her hands flying to her mouth, then she threw her arms around the smaller Hobbit and pulled her into an embrace. “He finally _asked you!_ ” Then just as abruptly she let go and stepped back. “You didn’t hear that!” she instructed, frowning sternly.

Sakura’s musical laughter pealed out. “Oh, _I_ might not have, but Lily did,” she replied, nodding toward the giggling little girl hiding behind the door.

“My reputation will be in tatters,” Daisy said with a theatrical sigh, then leaned forward and whispered, “Did you use the herbs for something besides holding off your time of month?” She laughed when Sakura blushed beet-red, then sobered. “You will be careful? There _are_ people here who will miss you, besides Bilbo. Some of them are even older than the giggle crop, here.”

“Yes, I’ll be careful,” Sakura replied, eyes going misty. “And thank you ... for everything you’ve done. In the middle of taking care of everyone else, don’t forget to take care of yourself ... and I’ll expect to hear all the _good_ stories when I get back!” This time it was her turn to embrace the matron, then she turned toward Kili and her pony.

“Wait wait wait!” Lily hurled herself out of the house and wrapped her arms around Sakura’s leg. “You _can’t_ go! If you leave, who’ll tell us stories?”

Sakura gently unwrapped the little girl’s arms then dropped to her knees. “I’m sorry, but I _have_ to go ... it’s really, really important. But I’ll be back, with all new stories! And I’ll even be in them.”

“Really? You promise?”

“I promise.” Sakura gently stroked Lily’s cheek, then said, “Tell you what, why don’t you come down to the market with me, and I’ll tell one last story to any children there before I leave. Okay?” (Another odd word the children had picked up.)

“Okay,” Lily agreed, sniffling.

“Come on, then.” Sakura rose to her feet, then bent down to grab Lily under her arms and swung her up onto the riderless pony. She motioned a now broadly grinning Kili to take the lead (muttering to him to take it slow), and walked alongside the child to make sure she didn’t fall off as the ponies clopped away.

Daisy stood and watched as the small band disappeared around a bend in the path, listening happily to her granddaughter’s squeals of delight and shouts at her friends to look at her. It was such a shame that the people of Hobbiton hadn’t been as accepting of the stranger in their midst as their children.

 _And they’ll be even less so when she returns_ , she thought as she turned back into her house, _Camellia will see to it_. _Though I suppose if Sakura waits long enough those children will simply grow up. But will she even want to stay when she gets back — return to being the town Outsider? This time she’ll have somewhere else to go — as big as her heart is, she won’t be able to help it._

The Matron of Hobbiton would have to give that some consideration, during Sakura’s absence.

/oOo\

It was getting toward mid-morning by the time Sakura made her last stop, just outside Hobbiton. The Hobbits had done well by her dead squad — not burying the Big Folk in the town’s graveyard, that was reserved for family plots, but on a wooded hill just outside Hobbiton. A spot that had its share of sun and shade, depending on the time of day, grassy and flowered and — as she thought every time she made the climb to visit her friends — a magnificent view of the farms and scattered woods below.

She thought so one more time as she finished the short climb (leaving Kili and the ponies at the foot of the hill) and turned to look for a time out over the countryside she was leaving behind.

She wasn’t sure _how_ she felt about leaving. On the one hand the Shire had grown ... comfortable, _safe_ , a soothing balm on the wounds — mental much more than physical — she’d taken during the war. And her future was here, with Bilbo and the family they would create.

On the other hand, while Daisy had been right that a few adults had come to _really_ accept her, they were exceptions — other than the children (though they were a true joy), the large majority of adults tolerated her, trusted her, but had never really _accepted_ her. And even the adults that had accepted her had never really understood her — not even Bilbo and Daisy, however hard they’d tried. And as she’d recovered her mental balance and the nightmares tapered off, she’d found life in the Shire slow and more than a little monotonous. Thankfully she’d had the rangers to both provide acceptance and understanding plus a little excitement, to the point that she’d considered joining them permanently. In the end she’d only decided to stay because Whoever had brought her here had brought her _here_ — to the Shire, not some ranger camp as it could have, had reshaped her into a Hobbit. She’d thought that meant her _purpose_ was here, but now ...

She dropped to sit cross-legged on grass long since dry from the morning dew beside the grave at the end, of her best friend. “Hey, Sharon. I know it’s been awhile, and it’s going to be even longer before my next visit because ... I have a new squad! They can’t replace you guys, of course ... only a few of them are warriors, but even if they were they aren’t you. Still, it’ll feel good to be a part of a real group again, doing something that matters! And I actually have a fiancé — yes, I know, one more time you were right and I was wrong. It started when ...”

It didn’t take her long to recount everything that had happened the day before and she again fell silent, soaking in the peace, until she finally patted the ground beside Sharon’s headstone. “I’ve already promised Bilbo and Daisy, and even Lily, but now I’ll promise you guys, too — I’ll be back, with stories like the fairy tales we were told as kids.”

She rose to her feet and said a quick prayer for the people she and her squad had left behind that would never know what had happened to their loved ones, another for those she was leaving behind now, then trotted down the hill and leaped up onto her pony. Smiling happily at Kili, she said, “Let’s go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't imagine Tolkien would have approved of my take on the Hobbits' premarital sexual practices, good Catholic that he was, but waiting until at least thirty-three is a long time. I think they'd end up with something like the Renaissance Germanies (I think), where long engagements while the man accumulated the resources to take care of a family were common and people usually turned a blind eye to the man sneaking into his fiancée's bedroom occasionally. Only the Hobbits are more open about it, of course.
> 
> The title comes from the song by Katey Sagal. It isn't a perfect fit, but fairly close.
> 
> Keep a fire burning in your eye  
> Pay attention to the open sky  
> You never know what will be coming down  
> I don't remember losing track of you  
> You were always dancing in and out of view  
> I must have thought you'd always be around  
> Always keeping things real by playing the clown  
> Now you're nowhere to be found
> 
> I don't know what happens when people die  
> Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try  
> It's like a song I can hear playing right in my ear  
> That I can't sing  
> I can't help listening  
> And I can't help feeling stupid standing 'round  
> Crying as they ease you down  
> 'cause I know that you'd rather we were dancing  
> Dancing our sorrow away  
> (right on dancing)  
> No matter what fate chooses to play  
> (there's nothing you can do about it anyway)
> 
> Just do the steps that you've been shown  
> By everyone you've ever known  
> Until the dance becomes your very own  
> No matter how close to yours  
> Another's steps have grown  
> In the end there is one dance you'll do alone
> 
> Keep a fire for the human race  
> Let your prayers go drifting into space  
> You never know what will be coming down  
> Perhaps a better world is drawing near  
> And just as easily it could all disappear  
> Along with whatever meaning you might have found  
> Don't let the uncertainty turn you around  
> (the world keeps turning around and around)  
> Go on and make a joyful sound
> 
> Into a dancer you have grown  
> From a seed somebody else has thrown  
> Go on ahead and throw some seeds of your own  
> And somewhere between the time you arrive  
> And the time you go  
> May lie a reason you were alive  
> But you'll never know


	4. On the Road Again

Bilbo ghosted through the woods, eyes darting about as he searched for any sign of the rangers he _knew_ had to be around somewhere! This _was_ where Sakura had brought him to meet her friends on the single visit he had insisted on ... wasn’t it? Somewhere? He thought so, but it had been a few years....

Then he caught the scent of woodsmoke and something _good_ cooking and suppressed a sigh of relief. That had to be them ... probably. But best not to take chances.

Dropping to a crouch, he crept forward and peeked through a bush at the four Big Folk sitting around a small campfire cooking their dinner. He thought they looked familiar — their leathers resembled what Sakura had come to wear on her visits to the Shire’s south border and the sheaths of the two knives he could see were shaped the same as hers. But he couldn’t be sure.

One of the men rose to his feet. “I’ll collect some more firewood,” he said as he picked up a larger version of the short, thick bow that Sakura had acquired before striding into the woods to Bilbo’s right.

Bilbo followed the sounds of the man’s movement through the woods for a moment, then refocused on the clearing as the single female of the four rose to her feet and stretched. As she did she turned slightly, and Bilbo relaxed as he finally caught a good view of her face — _her_ he remembered from his visit, impressed by the brunette’s weathered beauty. He had the right people.

“Twice in ten years? Having Hobbits sneak up on our camp is getting to be a common event. You’re not quite as sneaky as the last one, though.”

Bilbo shot to his feet and whirled around, heart pounding, to find the Man that had left the camp for firewood standing behind him several yards away, already lowering his bow with nocked arrow.

“Sakura was better at it, though ... Bilbo, isn’t it? You _are_ the Hobbit that visited a few years ago with Sakura? Is she all right?”

“Y-Y-Yes, I am, and Sakura’s fine,” Bilbo replied, as he slowly relaxed from the shock of being caught. He thought over the past two minutes and grimaced as he realized that the Man hadn’t just noticed him while gathering firewood as he’d said — who’d take his bow with him for that? “How did you notice me?”

The Man grinned. “If you’re planning to sneak up on someone, wear duller colors,” he replied with a chuckle, “I glimpsed you through the bush.”

Bilbo glanced down at his bright yellow waistcoat and grimaced again. He was not off to a good start.

Unstringing his bow, the Man nodded toward the clearing. “Come on, we have some stew left. Then you can tell us what brings you out here instead of Sakura.”

/\

Bilbo finished his bowl of stew — a wonderfully rich stew that achingly reminded him of Sakura, though he suspected that she had acquired the recipe from the rangers rather than the other way around — just as the last of the four rangers finished reading the letter he had given them.

The ranger folded up and handed the letter to the ranger that had caught Bilbo — Eradon. Eradon gazed down at the letter for a long moment, then glanced over at the only female among the four. “Ivorwen, you’re the best of us for long-distance runs, are you up to a run to Rivendell? I’d feel better knowing that Elrond is watching for their arrival, even if Mithrandir is with them.”

Ivorwen sighed, but nodded. “I will, too. Meet you in Bree at the usual time?”

Eradon nodded. “We’ll stick to the usual route. With the rest of the leg to the west to do before cutting back, that should give you more than enough time.”

“Agreed.” Ivorwen rose to her feet and scooped up her bow and pack, then giggled. “I wondered how long Sakura would be able to endure the Shire but I expected her to join us, not head off across half a continent to take on a Dragon!”

One of the other two rangers — the taciturn one, Arahad — spoke up from where he was scraping the last of the stew out of the pot. “I just hope she doesn’t choke on the mouthful she’s bitten off. I’d miss her.” He looked up when others turned to stare at him, then shrugged. “What? She grows on you.”

Ivorwen suddenly grinned. “That she does, and she’s going to owe me when she gets back, you just won our wager for me.” She slung her backpack onto her back and turned away.

Eradon called out, “Ivorwen.” When she turned around, he continued, “Make sure to swing wide on your return. As much as I know you’d like to see how Sakura is doing, she’d ask what _you_ are doing alone that far east and Thorin Oakenshield is a little touchy about Elves. He would _not_ be happy learning that they know something of his business because of Sakura.”

Ivorwen reluctantly nodded her agreement, and then she was gone.

Eradon watched her go, then turned back to Bilbo. Lifting the letter, he said, “Sakura says the two of you will be getting married when she gets back.”

“She did?” Bilbo was surprised, he hadn’t expected her to mention that. Then he wondered why he hadn’t, after all the times she had visited the rangers she had to have gotten close to them.

The ranger that had been quiet to that point — Ohtar — spoke up. “Actually, she said to be nice to you, you’re her fiancé now and she’d have to take your side when she gets back if we don’t.” the other two rangers chuckled as Bilbo blushed.

Still, that was probably as good an opening as he was going to get. Before he could change his mind, he quickly said, “Actually, there’s something you could do for me — for us. Train me.”

The chuckles cut off. “ ‘Train’ you?” Eradon asked. “Train you in what?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Whatever you do,” he replied. He hesitated for a moment, then continued, “When Sakura gets back, a lot of the ... acceptance she’s built up is going to be gone. Actually, it’s already going — though the way the gossip about our engagement is clashing with the gossip about how she’s, ah ... ‘run off on an adventure’ is confusing people. But I don’t think when she gets back she’s going to be really happy in the Shire. She’d stay because of me, but if I hadn’t asked her to marry me she’d probably join you instead. But I did, and I don’t want her to regret saying yes.”

The three rangers stared at him for a long moment, before Eradon finally said, “Is that the only reason you want to do this? You understand this is going to be hard on you — very hard. We travel light and sometimes fast, and live rough. It’ll be like nothing you’ve ever dreamed of.”

“I know,” Bilbo replied. “Do I really need another reason? Sakura is ... important to me.” He was _not_ going to mention the regrets he had suffered in the week since Wizard, Dwarves and sort-of-Hobbit had left on their quest. That night, before Sakura had shown up, when the Dwarves had sung of how the Dragon had stolen their home from them, for just a moment he had been caught up by the music ... lost in his re-awakened childhood thirst to see new lands, real mountains, deep forests — to live a life to make a _tale_ out of! It hadn’t lasted more than a few moments, swept away by the horror of the thought of a Dragon descending on the Shire. But as the too-quiet days passed, one after another, each the same as the one before, he’d found that longing returning, found himself wishing — not that Sakura hadn’t gone — but that he had gone with her.

But that was a pipe dream. He hadn’t missed the contempt of the Dwarves, sprung from the same source as Sakura’s care: he was weak — if he had gone, he would have been worse than useless. And so his request.

When it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything more, Eradon glanced over at the other two, lifting an eyebrow. They exchanged glances, then one nodded and the other shrugged. Eradon turned back to Bilbo. “Very well, it seems we have an apprentice.”

/oOo\

Sakura huddled inside her cloak, sniffling, paying only enough attention to her pony to keep from falling off as it ambled along. She was in the middle of the line of riders, so it wasn’t like she was going to get lost — the Dwarves wouldn’t let her, and that was the problem.

She was feeling very sorry for herself.

She had had such high hopes at the beginning of the quest. As wonderful as Bilbo and Mistress Greenhand ... a few others besides the children ... had been, she had never been able to feel like she _belonged_ in the Shire, a part of the community. The rangers had been better, they _understood_ her in a way impossible for what few Hobbit friends she’d managed to make. But again, even with the easy acceptance, the training, the gifts of knife and bow, she’d never really been a part of their little group. She _could_ have been, but it would have meant leaving Hobbiton ... Bilbo ... and joining them full-time. Something she’d been unwilling to do, even though she knew they would have accepted her in a heartbeat if she’d asked. But she had missed the camaraderie she had shared with her squad, if nothing else from the War, and she’d hoped to find it again with Gandalf and the Dwarves. She had been bitterly disappointed.

Oh, _Gandalf_ wasn’t the problem ... sure, he had been watching her like a hawk ever since she and Kili had caught up with the rest of the party, but she’d expected that. She was an unknown, and an extremely _odd_ one at that — she was sure he’d never met a Hobbit like her before. And Mithrandir — the Gray Wanderer — hadn’t lasted all these centuries, much less gained the almost worshipful regard of the rangers, by being careless. No, her only question was how long it would take him to stop observing and start asking questions of his own; by now, he had to have a small list that would only grow longer when he started getting answers.

No, the problem was the Dwarves, most of them, and a problem that had taken her a while to recognize. She had been her usual cheery self, and the Dwarves had been as charmed as most people were — even Hobbits. And unlike the Hobbits, where liking and even trust wasn’t the same as _acceptance_ , the Dwarves _had_ seemed to accept her as a person, trading jokes and stories of growing up, letting her help out with the camp chores, friendly all (well, except for Thorin, Dwalin and Dori, but the first two were standoffish — Dwalin by nature, only truly relaxing with his brother Balin; and Thorin she thought keeping a slight distance as king and leader of their party — and the third suspicious by nature and concern for his younger brothers). She should have suspected the truth when all the Dwarves called her by first name instead of ‘Master Piper’, but she hadn’t realized the truth until they passed Bree into the empty lands to its east, and started up watches at night — and Thorin had refused to assign her a watch. Kili hadn’t been joking that morning in her room, at heart they really did see her as a child, whatever their heads told them.

And to make it worse, she couldn’t figure out how to convince them otherwise, not in the middle of a long journey where every day was like the day before. She had let drop the fact that she was engaged (though not to whom, telling them it was to Bilbo would have made it a little hard to maintain her disguise as a male), and had gotten surprised comments about how young she was. Maybe to a Dwarf, twenty-seven _was_ too young, but it hadn’t been the response she’d been looking for. She had volunteered to hunt up a little fresh meat come the evening encampment, to stretch out their supplies. She’d made the mistake of taking Nori along to help bring back her kill (as a presumably reformed thief, he was likely the stealthiest of the Dwarves) and leaving her bow behind. When they’d returned with him carrying the deer carcass, still pale and shivering at what he’d seen, that had been the end of that. Thorin suddenly decided that safety required everyone to stay close to camp.

With that her temper finally started fraying to the point that everyone but Bombur, Kili and Fili took to avoiding her as much as they could — Bombur because he was the party’s cook (and a very good one, as indicated by his sheer bulk, whose luscious stews meant that it wasn’t just the limited camp rations that made her regret not having more) and he didn’t treat her like a child when they discussed stews and other camp fare. And Kili and Fili because Kili had never treated her like a child and Fili had soon followed his younger brother’s lead. Kili actually helped her practice her archery some evenings, and both brothers were happy for her company when she insisted on joining them for their assigned watches (she _would_ be included on the watch list, whatever Thorin said). But along with Ori they were the youngest of the Dwarves, less than fifty years old, and not taken all that seriously themselves.

And then it started to lightly rain — for hours at a time, day after day, cool night after cool night, adding lack of sleep to her woes more than joining Fili and Kili for their watches cost her already. Her ranger cloak, as excellent as it was, soon reached the limits of its weatherproofing. So now she was a sodden, cold, grumpy, slightly lightheaded mess.

“ ‘Ere, Master Gandalf, why don’t you do somethin’ about this deluge?”

Sakura glanced toward Dori on one side of her pony. _It seems someone else is sick of the weather_ , she thought, then shifted her gaze to Gandalf on her other side. (Yes, she’d long noticed that the two members of the party most suspicious of her spent most of their time on the road bracketing her.)

“It is raining, Master Dwarf, and it will continue to do so until the rain is done,” Gandalf replied in a weary voice, making Sakura wonder how often he’d been asked that over the centuries. “If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another Wizard.”

“Oh, good!” Sakura exclaimed, fighting to keep her voice as deep as possible without being obvious about it. “I’m glad I’m travelling with a Wizard and not a **god** ... uh, a Valar! Can you imagine how much all the air you’d have to move to do that must _weigh_? Not to mention the _clouds_!”

Dwarves turned in their saddles to stare at her. “But air doesn’t weigh anything ... does it?” Ori, the youngest of the Dwarves, hesitantly asked, turning in his saddle. His tiny, earth-toned braids were dripping water and his knitted scarf and gloves soaked through, but as miserable as he had to be he seemed honestly curious.

“No, Master Piper is correct,” Gandalf absentmindedly replied as he eyed the party’s burglar. “That is why the air is thinner at the tops of mountains, less air is piled on top, pressing it down. And what are clouds but water suspended in the air? But that isn’t common knowledge among Hobbits.” His nonchalant tone was belied by the sharpness of his gaze.

Sakura hid a smile when the Wizard declined to say anything more — apparently, even now his caution outweighed his curiosity. _Too bad he’ll get a lot of his answers when we get to Rivendell and he talks to Elrond, it’d be fun to see if he could keep from asking any questions all the way to Lonely Mountain._

But she had questions of her own, and after a few minutes she asked, “Gandalf? Why is the land so empty?” She slipped one arm out from under her cloak to wave at the silent, dripping pine forest they were currently riding through. “This all used to be part of a thriving kingdom of Men! I know it broke up, and that plague and civil war devastated the land before the Elves and Gondor finished off the surviving nation of Men and Orcs — did you know the Hobbits actually remember that last war? They do, or at least they remember the company of archers that they sent to answer their last King’s call, that never returned. But that was centuries ago! Why aren’t there any settlements between Bree and the Misty Mountains?”

Gandalf glanced down at her. “Ghosts, Master Piper,” he replied.

“Ghosts!?!” the Dwarves around them chorused.

“Yes, ghosts. When the Witch King of Angmar led his armies down from the north to shatter Arthedain, the last kingdom of Men in the North, he brought more than Men and Orcs with him, or even Trolls. The ruins are still haunted, and the restless dead don’t always stay _in_ those ruins. Oh, not around here,” he hastened to add when he noticed the Dwarves looking around nervously, “those ruins mostly lie behind us closer to Bree, and the part of the Great East Road through there is safe enough — it is used by Elves wishing to take delight in the Shire or take ship Over the Sea from Gray Havens. No, around here the problem is the occasional Orc raiding party out of Mount Gram or Trolls wandering down from the Ettinmoors and the Coldshaws. But you still get the occasional family that ignores the rangers’ warnings not to try to homestead out here.”

He glanced up at the open sky over the road, and Sakura realized that while they had been talking the rain had been easing up and now the sun had broken through the clouds in breathtakingly beautiful beams of misty sunlight. “There, you see, Master Dwarf?” the Wizard said with a sly glance at Dori. “No need to tell the rain it isn’t wanted, it’ll move off on its own soon enough.”

/oOo\

Gandalf was proven right about both the occasional attempt to settle and the raiders that preyed on them when Nori, scouting ahead, found a ruined farm on the edge of the woodland just as evening fell. Thorin looked around from his place at the head of the column as Nori led them up from the road to the half-collapsed farmhouse and outbuildings, weathering and up-growing grass and young trees indicating it had been long abandoned. “You’re right, Nori,” he said, “this will do nicely for the night. Ori, Fili, Kili, look after the ponies. Bombur, get a fire started for our evening meal. The rest of you, there ought to be plenty of wood lying around that isn’t soaked through, gather it for the fire.”

Sakura swung down from her pony with relief and handed the reins to Ori before eagerly joining the hunt for larger pieces of wood that could be split to expose the inner dry core. A warm meal (if not enough), a change into her only dry clothes that she had saved for the end of the rain, and hang her cloak and bedroll up by the fire to dry so she could sleep dry that night and she would be a new Hobbit!

“Hey, Sakura!”

Her shoulders tightened at Dwalin’s shout, and she turned around just at the edge of the clearing to glare back at the tattooed warrior. “Yes?” she asked through gritted teeth — she knew _just_ what he was going to say....

“Why don’t you look around for the lighter stuff in the clearing for kindling? Leave the heavier pieces in the forest to us.”

She knew it! _Of all the flimsy excuses —_ She swallowed the rant she ached to throw at him and sighed. Just what were they going to do when they all reached Erebor and it was time for her to going into the Dragon’s lair alone? “Fine, I’ll ... do that,” she muttered and walked back into the clearing. Like there weren’t plenty of small pieces in the woods, or big pieces scattered around the ruined farm! In fact, thinking about the farms and ranches back home and the farms of the Shire there ought to be a woodpile close to the main house....

As she approached the half-collapsed building she could hear voices, Gandalf and Thorin ... and they _weren’t_ happy. “— why should I seek the help of those that betrayed my grandfather ... my father?” she heard Thorin growl. Then Gandalf burst out of the building and strode past her toward the eastern edge of the clearing, his staff almost sticking into the rain-damp ground as he slammed it down with every step. She turned to watch him go. “Gandalf, where are you going?” she called after him.

“To seek the company of the only one around here who has any sense,” Gandalf growled without slowing down.

“Who is that?”

“Myself, Master Piper!” he shouted over his shoulders. “I’ve had enough of the stubbornness of Dwarves for one day!” And then he vanished into the woods and was gone.

The Dwarves in the clearing had turned at his shout and stared after him.

Ori asked, “Where is he going?”

“He’s a Wizard, lad, he goes where he pleases,” Balin replied, the white-haired counselor’s long, forked beard gently waving as he shook his head. He glanced reproachfully toward Thorin, emerging from the farmhouse.

“B-but ... h-he’ll be back ... won’t he?” Ori stuttered.

Sakura chuckled (instead of giggling ... that took some effort). She didn’t know what had set Gandalf off, but she could sympathize. “Of course, he will. Your quest is too important for him to abandon just because he’s offended.”

Balin looked over at her, gaze sharp. “Shouldn’t that be _our_ quest, laddie?”

“Is it? I’m sure you’ll let me know when that’s the case.” Sakura turned away. “Come on, there ought to be a woodpile by the house, more than enough for tonight’s fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect to see too much of Bilbo going forward. He's going to be doing all the necessary but boring-to-detail stuff necessary to become a woodsman. All the exciting stuff will be on the Quest! (Or Quests, maybe, I haven't quite decided yet.)
> 
> The chapter title is an ironic twist on Willie Nelson's classic Country song.


	5. First Skirmish

Sakura stayed still, covered by her finally-dry and warm bedroll, as she came instantly awake. She listened to the normal night sounds (including snoring Dwarves) and relaxed, then stiffened again when she glanced toward where Fili and Kili had been bedded down to find their bedrolls empty. They had the last watch of the night, and she had been so tired and comfortable that she’d actually overslept!

She muttered a curse before silently easing out from under of her blankets (made easy by the way that, unlike most of the Dwarves, she hadn’t _wrapped_ herself in her bedroll), and picked up her conveniently placed belt with her knife and pistol and slung it around her waist. Now armed, she grabbed her cloak and ghosted through the night toward where the brothers would be standing sentry. They could use a good scare as ‘reward’ for not waking her up.

In the end all her stealth proved unnecessary, she probably could have openly marched up to the pair, clearly illuminated by the light of the moon, brushing against every bush and young tree in the process and they wouldn’t have noticed — they were too busy staring at where the ponies were staked. Directly behind them, Sakura murmured, “What’s wrong?” She grinned when the pair jumped.

“We seem to have encountered a slight problem,” Fili replied, his hands nervously playing with two of the braided ropes of hair falling by his ears.

“We had sixteen ponies —” Kili started.

Fili finished, “— but now we have twelve: Marigold, Daisy, Mindy and Bungo are missing.”

“What?” Sakura hissed, quickly doing her own count of the ponies. They were right, there were only twelve. She instantly crouched, pulling the two Dwarves down with her as her eyes darted around — nothing. “Wait here,” she murmured, and scuttled forward. _Okay, the light is horrible, but with the rains maybe there’s some sign_ , she thought as she cautiously approached the ponies, then began to circle. _Chances are we’ll have to wait till morning, but —_ She broke off as she stared at the massive prints of bare humanoid feet, deep enough into the rain-soaked ground to cast their own moon-shadows. She looked up along the pair of double-tracks, coming from and going into the woods away from the road, and sighed when she saw the ancient tree lying on its side, roots pulled out of the ground. She knew what had stolen their ponies, what had knocked down the tree months earlier ... and what had caved in half the farmhouse at the same time: Trolls.

“You fell asleep on watch, didn’t you?” She glanced at the Dwarves — she was sure that if the moonlight didn’t bleach out all color she’d see them blushing furiously. “It must have been a _really deep_ sleep, if it lasted through a _Troll_ walking up and making off with our ponies ... twice!” She was grinning as she spoke, but she was _very_ much less than happy.

 _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!_ she railed to herself. _Gandalf just_ mentioned _Trolls this afternoon! Why didn’t you think of them as soon as you saw the house? Why didn’t you ignore Thorin and scout around? But no, you wanted warm, dry blankets and an early night. The Dwarves are_ right _to treat you like a child, you’re_ acting _like one — skipping along like this is a day’s amble through the Shire! You’ve gotten as lazy and oblivious as the Hobbits you live with, even if you aren’t as fat!_ She paused to take a deep breath and force her self-disgust aside. Okay, that last bit hadn’t been fair, it wasn’t the Hobbits’ fault that they’d been secretly protected from casual incursions by the rangers all those centuries. It was possible that the Dúnedain hadn’t done the Shirefolk any favors, though the Hobbits had done well enough the one time that Orcs had invaded in large enough numbers that the rangers couldn’t stop them — _Not important right now, focus. We’re going to need the ponies._ She didn’t know how far it was yet to Rivendell ... in fact, she’d only assumed that was where Gandalf was leading them. It wasn’t like she could just ask, not with Thorin’s dislike of Elves, and if he had his way it was possible they’d just skip it entirely. In which case, they’d _really_ need the ponies....

 _Right!_ She turned to the two Dwarves and asked, “Which of you two is the best at moving quietly?”

The two exchanged glances, then Fili nodded at Kili. “He is.”

“Okay, then Kili, you’re coming with me. Fili, head back to camp and get everyone up, tell them to pack. If we can Kili and I will be bringing back our lost ponies, but whether we can get them back or not you all need to be ready to leave as soon as we arrive.”

The two Dwarves stiffened, nodding in unison at the tone of command they’d never heard before from their young Hobbit friend; then Fili was gone, headed toward the camp.

Kili watched his brother go, then turned to Sakura when she touched his arm. She ordered, “Give me a head start, then stay back ten paces or so behind me. When I raise my fist” — she demonstrated, holding her fist up at right angle from her body and cursing herself again for neglecting to work out any kind of sign language with the Dwarves, either what she’d learned training for her own war or whatever the Dwarves might have — “freeze in place. That’ll mean I’ve found our ponies and either be scouting the area or fetching the first couple back to you. Got it?”

Kili nodded again, and Sakura dropped her cloak as she turned to follow the trail as best she could. Lucky for her it was a bright moon and a cloudless sky, and that she was tracking a _freaking Troll!_ Yeah, right ... lucky.

/\

Sakura suppressed yet another wince at more of the soft sounds of the undergrowth brushing against Kili as he pushed through it. She _really_ wished the pine forest they were sneaking through was typical, with undergrowth suppressed by a lack of direct sunlight and a carpet of pine needles. Sure, the lack of undergrowth would make the pair easier to see, but the night’s shadows would have taken care of that easily enough. But apparently Trolls liked to knock down trees, so there were plenty of breaks in the tree cover. Though the inevitable foliage those breaks allowed to spring up made tracking the Troll (or Trolls) possible at night, and she had cloaked herself in her Art....

 _Right, if_ Kili _attracts the Trolls’ attention I’ll just quietly sneak away ... not!_ She failed to suppress a wince when a stick cracked just as she saw the first flickering red of fire light through the bushes. _We’re doomed_. She raised her fist, waited until the silence showed Kili had frozen in place as she’d ordered, then crept forward toward the light.

Two Trolls, just as she’d been afraid of, were in a clearing beside a large fire, massive beings with brown, gnarly skin and flat, half-formed features, wearing loincloths of untanned leather. Their voices were a deep rumbling as they talked to each other in a language she’d never heard before and didn’t want to hear again — she’d heard harsh, hard languages before back at home, but _this_ tongue seemed to darken the shadows and weigh on the heart by its sound alone.

She forced herself to ignore the shivers down her spine to concentrate on what the Trolls were doing, or rather making ... a massive spit for roasting, made of larger branches with the bark still on, tied together by heavy rope they must have looted from travelers since she couldn’t imagine them making their own. And over to one side of the clearing, the carcass of one of the ponies, already skinned and ready for the fire. _Hopefully, that’ll keep them occupied while I get away with the rest. So where ... ah!_ On the opposite side of the clearing, a knocked down tree with most of the branches on one side cut away forming one side of a primitive corral, the other three sides made up of some of the tree’s branches left in place and tied to a few branches across the open side. _Okay, good, we can do this._

Easing away from the edge of the clearing, she quickly and quietly returned to Kili, suppressing a grin at his start of surprise when she ghosted out of the dark — it was good to know that she hadn’t lost it, however careless she’d been since joining the Quest. She quickly filled him in on what she’d seen, then led him in a curving path around the clearing toward the makeshift corral. When they were still a score of paces away, she leaned close and murmured, “Wait here, I’ll bring the ponies. If anything happens head for the camp and get everyone on the road. I’ll keep the Trolls distracted and catch up.” She waited for his nod, then slunk over to the corner furthest from the clearing and drew her bowie knife.

It was the work of a few minutes to slice through the ropes tying the branches together and ease them wide and down to the ground. Fortunately, the ponies still had the long cords they’d been staked with so they’d be able to graze, and it was the work of a moment to sheath her knife and gather those cords up to guide them out toward Kili. The ponies were happy enough to leave, though her heart had stopped when they’d snorted at her scent and the noise they were making moving through the undergrowth on the way back to Kili wasn’t helping —

“Oi! W’at you do wit’ nags!?”

At the sound of rough, broken, heavily accented Common, Sakura whirled to find a _third_ Troll standing a few yards away, his dropped load of wood for the fire scattered at his feet. “Kili, run!” she shouted even as deep, startled Troll voices came from the fire. The Troll twisted its head to look toward the sound of the crunch of pine needles as Kili ran (and a thump and curse when he must have run into a tree), and she dropped the ponies’ cords and yanked her knife from its sheath as she yelled, “Hey, rocks-for-brains, over here!”

The Troll roared as the three ponies scattered and she charged toward him, then again as she ducked under the clumsy swipe of one massive hand and slashed at the back of his ankle where the Achilles tendon was on Men.

 _Damn!_ she thought as her blade scoured along the Troll’s thick hide, leaving only a thin line that didn’t even bleed. _I was afraid of that, too thick!_ She rolled away from another swipe and tried to jab it in the ass only to find the tough, uncured leather of its loincloth as effective as the leather armor of the rangers. She backed away even as the other two Trolls came crashing through the bushes. As clumsy as they were here in the forest they might get lucky, pin her against a tree or bush ... _Right, back to the clearing, out in the open I can play fox and hounds with them all night!_

She charged straight at the newcomers, threw herself down to roll _under_ one of the two, and shouted taunting laughter at his fresh roar when her knife left a shallow slice along a _very_ sensitive piece of his anatomy. “Yeah, like you get much use out of that, anyway!” she shouted over her shoulder, still laughing as she ran towards the fire’s glow. _Yes!_ she exulted at the sound of the Trolls crashing through the forest behind her. She laughed again as the Trolls burst into the clearing and she leaped onto the spit and _over_ the fire for more room and a little time ... and suddenly the clearing was full of Dwarves, swinging and hacking at the Trolls with swords, axes and maces.

“No! No! No! You _idiots_!” she shrieked, then slapped a hand over her mouth as she realized that she hadn’t kept the tone of her voice lower. Fortunately, her shriek was lost in the cacophony of Dwarven battle cries and bellows from the Trolls.

The Dwarves _definitely_ weren’t a squad, or had even trained together — they kept getting in each other’s way. Some of them weren’t even that good as individuals; though Thorin with his swords and Dwalin with his massive mace were both masters; Balin was competent with his sword; and Fili and Kili were working their Troll like a team, Fili attacking from one side, his sword battering at the Troll’s arms before Kili dropped low on the other side to slash his own sword across the back of an ankle — with no more apparent effect than Sakura’s knife (well, _maybe_ a faint line of dark blood), but at least he had the right idea. But the rest ... _Is Ori using a_ slingshot _!?_

Then she winced as Ori’s stone flew true, and the middle Troll staggered back a step as it slapped a huge, meaty palm over an eye. _Okay, maybe it’s not so — no!_ The Troll was ignoring Dori and Nori whaling away at him with staff and mace to glare at Ori, growling deep in his throat. He suddenly swatted aside the two brothers bedeviling him and charged straight at Ori ... who froze, eyes wide with fright.

Sakura was running forward, but suddenly a wave of weakness washed through her and the world seemed to wobble, and her foot caught on a root. Before she could recover from her stumble or his brothers could reach them, the Troll snatched up Ori, then turned and threw him across the clearing, knocking over Balin and Thorin like bowling pins. The Troll they were fighting reached down with a triumphant shout. One hand scrabbled dirt as Thorin rolled out of the way, but the elderly Balin was too shaken to move and the Troll snatched him up and grabbed the arm holding his sword. “Drop yer arms, er I rip ‘is off!” he shouted.

Sakura didn’t even bother to glance over at Thorin, she knew exactly what he was going to do — in spite of Balin’s headshake, there was no way the king in exile was going to sacrifice his oldest friend and closest counselor. Even as weapons thudded onto the ground at Thorin’s growled command, she crouched behind Dori and Nori and crept backwards to the edge of the clearing. Ducking behind a tree, she dropped to her butt and leaned back against the trunk. _Wow, I’m not just rusty, I’m out of shape ... I_ really _shouldn’t be this tired, not this quickly. Ah, well, I’ll just have to start exercising in the evenings._ She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, slow and steady, ignored the guttural tones of the Trolls speaking to each other in their own language, the crunch of undergrowth that was presumably one of the Trolls walking off. _I am the rustling brush, the shifting shadows as the breeze blows through the night_. She slowly peeked around the tree to see what was happening in the clearing.

As she expected there were only two Trolls now, one holding Balin by both arms now, the other flanking the Dwarves on the side of the clearing leading back to camp, both Trolls were glancing toward the east. For a moment she thought they might have heard Gandalf returning, but whatever it was they were looking at was too high for that, so what — ? _Wait a minute, didn’t Ivorwen say something once about Trolls being night creatures? Something about sunlight ... wait, that’s right, they turn to stone like the gargoyles in that old cartoon!_ That gave her a time limit — whatever she did, it had to be before dawn. The Trolls might just decide to kill the Dwarves to keep them from escaping during the day, otherwise. And Fili and Kili’s watch had been the last of the night, dawn couldn’t be all that far off.

The fresh crunch of undergrowth signaled the return of the third Troll with a bundle of fabric under one arm that proved to be huge bags with rope drawstrings. He passed some to the Troll not holding Balin by the arms, and as the two started stuffing the surrendered Dwarves into the bags, tying them off, and tossing them into a pile (much to various Dwarves’ shouted displeasure), she slipped from tree to tree around the edge of the clearing. Balin would be the last stuffed in a sack and she needed to be in position before then — keeping the Dwarves alive would be the sensible thing to do, living flesh didn’t start to decompose before one could get around to eating it, but the Trolls didn’t strike her as sensible. One hand brushed against her pistol’s holster, and she briefly considered drawing it, but quickly rejected the thought. _As big and tough as they are I’d need to hit a vital point, and even if I thought my aiming was up to it I can’t be sure where on a Troll the vital points_ are _. If they have any. Beyond the obvious, anyway._

Then Bofur, the Dwarf with the broken ax head stuck in his skull, was stuffed in a bag as he shouted something in what she had been told was the original Dwarvish tongue of Ancient Khuzdul (and the only language he’d spoken since his injury). The clearing was empty of unbagged Dwarves. The Troll holding Balin bellowed laughter as he tossed the Dwarf to another Troll to cram into his own bag, before ambling over to the pile of squirming, complaining bags. He grabbed the top bag and hoisted it up at arm’s length with one hand as his other hand went to a makeshift Troll-sized knife made out of a scythe blade. Sakura was out of time.

Her Invisibility Art shattered as with a banshee shriek she hurled herself into the clearing at the Troll drawing his knife. The Troll bellowed with surprise, dropping the bundled Dwarf he was holding to swipe at her, and she dodged underneath the huge swinging hand and _leaped_ to grab onto his upper arm and swarm up his shoulder to sling herself around his neck. Yanking her bowie knife out of its sheath and flipping it for a reverse grip, she jabbed frantically at where a carotid artery would be in a Man or Hobbit’s neck — no use, she just wasn’t strong enough to get through his thick hide.

But the _Troll_ was, and a massive meaty palm slapping at his neck slammed the knife into and through, dark blood gushing as the knife tip thrust out the other side.

Sakura let go of the Troll’s neck and let his staggering throw her away over the fire. She tucked into a roll as she landed and let her momentum carry her to her feet, turning to stare at the stricken Troll just as his scrabbling fingers caught on the protruding hilt and ripped the knife out — and ripped the Troll’s throat wide open. He clutched at the tear, and blood spurted between his fingers to spray across the other two Trolls as they rushed over to help their dying friend. They caught him as he dropped to his knees, but it was hopeless. His hand fell away to thump uncaring into the fire as his body went limp in his friends’ grip.

“Burat?” One Troll crouched and gently shook the corpse’s shoulder. “Burat?” He waved a hand in front of unstaring eyes. “Burat?” Slowly, he rose to his feet and turned to stare at Sakura. The other Troll broke off staring down at the corpse to turn toward Sakura as well, large tears trickling down his face. “You kill our brother!” he snarled.

 _Too much information._ Sakura ignored the familiar nausea beginning to churn in her gut as she slowly backed up toward the trees. “Yeah, I did, he had it coming,” she snarked, spitting to one side. “What are you going to do about it?” The Trolls roared and instantly lumbered toward her, and she whirled to bolt into the forest.

Her plan had been a simple one, to get the three Trolls chasing her then to play fox and hounds with them, to keep their hopes up and the focus on her instead of the bagged Dwarves back in the clearing and the coming sunrise. That would give everyone time to pack up and be well down the road before nightfall. But she’d thought that _she_ would be the one to set the pace, that she’d have to slow down to let them keep her in sight. Then a grieving Troll smashed into a tree and tore it up from the roots, and Sakura had to throw herself frantically to one side to avoid being trapped under its branches, then had to roll away from the other Toll’s frantically grasping hands. _Crap crap crap, which way’s_ east _?_ She risked a moment to glance around and get oriented then began to run, jinking through the trees.

The chase that followed seemed an endless nightmare of snapping, toppling trees and bellowing monsters bursting through undergrowth as her lungs burned and her heart thudded in her throat until sparkles of light spangled her vision. But finally she burst out into another clearing, and whirled to run backward as she looked up at the trees behind her even as the Trolls rampaged out of the forest after her — sunlight stretched across those trees, made ragged by the trees across the clearing, she’d made it! Then her heel caught on something and she was tumbling backward, arms pinwheeling as she thumped down.

Before she could recover a massive hand circled her waist to snatch her off the grass. “Burat have no throat, you have no head!” he snarled triumphantly, then grasped her head with his other hand and _slowly_ began to twist.

“Dawn take you all and be stone to you!” The voice seemed to fill the world, and the two Trolls whirled at a flash of light from the other side of the clearing. Then three trees side-by-side slowly toppled forward, and as they thudded down onto the grass sunlight flooded across the Trolls.

The Troll holding Sakura tossed her up and away as he futilely raised his arms against the light, and she had a moment’s kaleidoscope of sky and grass and trees and massive brown Trolls smoking as they turned gray. Then she slammed into something and everything went dark.

/\

She slowly awoke to the cool air of a breeze on her sweat-soaked clothes and the sound of birds singing out their morning chorus. She was lying in someone’s lap. Forcing open her eyes, she found herself staring up into Gandalf’s wrinkled, worried face. “Don’t move, let me see your eyes,” the Wizard ordered, then gently turned her head to check each eye. “You don’t have any broken bones and your eyes look all right. How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been beaten on like a drum, but I’ll be fine,” Sakura replied. She rolled off the Wizard’s lap to stand up and stretch with a groan, then turned to look at the two statues now standing at the edge of the clearing. “We’d better get back to the Dwarves. By now they ought to be out of the bags the Trolls stuffed them in.”

“Are they all right?” Gandalf asked, his concern shifting to a less immediate target.

“They should be, we can finish getting packed and be on our way. If we’re well down the road, the Trolls shouldn’t try to catch up to us once night falls.”

A hand gently settled on her shoulder. “Master Piper ... Sakura ... that will not be a problem. Trolls do not revert to flesh and blood once they have turned to stone.”

“They don’t,” she said flatly.

“No.”

Sakura stared at the statues she now realized were as much corpses as the one she’d left behind and her nausea from before surged back, sending her to her hands and knees to empty out what was left of the previous night’s stew onto the grass.

Gandalf dropped to one knee. “Master Piper, are you _certain_ you are all right?”

“Yes.” Sakura shifted so she was sitting on the grass, her head between her knees. She reached out blindly. “Water?” A leather water bottle was pressed into one hand and she gratefully sipped enough to wash out her mouth and spit, then took several gulps to clear out her throat. She handed it back, then pushed herself back up to her feet. “No need to be concerned, it is far from the first time,” she said as nonchalantly as she could manage. “There is something in me that rebels against killing people, however necessary it may be. And they _were_ people, whatever else they might have been.”

She looked one last time at the Trolls she’d helped kill, then turned to stride into the forest ... or started to, anyway. In her exhaustion a fiery-haired foot didn’t lift high enough to clear a root, and only Gandalf hastily grabbing a shoulder kept her on her feet. She shrugged off the hand and set off again, more carefully this time. “Let’s get back to the Dwarves,” she repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Sakura is blooded again, for the first time in a decade, and beginning to get back on a war footing.
> 
> For the Troll's name of Burat, that's always been one of the things about _The Hobbit_ showing it's intended for children. Trolls named Bert, Tom and William, really? I took Burat from the Middle Earth: The Wizard CCG card for the same. The other two names are Tûma and Wûluag. Also, though Sakura doesn't know it, they're talking to each other in Black Speech.


	6. The Hunt is on!

Sakura staggered away from the Troll hole and bent over to brace her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. She and Gandalf had met the Dwarves on the way back, all out of the bags and re-armed and looking to rescue her _again_. (Though this time she’d needed it just a _wee_ bit more, and she’d been grateful that Gandalf hadn’t told them how close she’d come to getting her head twisted off — the Dwarves were bad enough already, no need to encourage them.)

But as soon as they were assured that she was all right, Nori had instantly thought of the Troll hole ... and the loot it had to contain. Thorin had detailed off four of the party to gather up the ponies, prepare breakfast and break down the camp (including Fili and Kili, the pair shamefaced at his comment that perhaps they’d be better able to keep track of the ponies this time). But he’d also insisted that Sakura accompany the party looking for the hole, ostensibly because she was their burglar, but she suspected that after the scare she’d given them he simply didn’t want her out of his sight.

The filth and grime of the Troll hole hadn’t bothered her much, or even the stench ... she’d smelled worse during the War. (Okay, ‘as bad’. Maybe.) But she didn’t care about the gold and jewels scattered in small piles around the hole, and the hodge-podge of broken furniture and despoiled clothes and equipment ... corpses of the dead dreams of the Trolls’ equally dead victims ... had been depressing. And then she’d seen the muck-encrusted stuffed doll lying discarded, and realized that at least one of the Trolls’ victims — maybe even the farmer — had had a _child._ What that child’s fate must have been had hit her like a hammer and she had had to get _out_.

Now she fought her nausea under control and sighed with relief (not that she had anything left to upchuck, something her stomach was reminding her of now that she was away from the stench and filth) and strode away toward the clearing where the Trolls’ fire had been. She had a knife to find before she grabbed some breakfast, and if Thorin thought he could bundle her up in bubble wrap he could try it without her cooperation.

/\

“Ah, Master Piper, _there_ you are!”

Sakura looked up from the pieces of the broken knife in her hands — the Troll must have snapped it off at the hilt when he yanked it through his own throat — and forced a smile for the gray-bearded Wizard striding into the Trolls’ clearing from the direction of the camp, staff thumping along, a sheathed blade in one hand. She stood up as he approached (not that it helped, considering their respective heights) and asked, “Thorin isn’t throwing a fit, is he?”

“No, though he was ready to send out search parties before I convinced him that I could find you,” Gandalf replied.

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,” she said with a sigh. She dropped the knife shards — no point in taking them with her, they would need to be melted down and reforged and there weren’t many blacksmiths in the direction they were traveling. Or time for it, for that matter. “Come on, let’s get some breakfast before my stomach gets overly acquainted with my backbone.”

“A fine idea,” Gandalf agreed. “But first ...” He offered her the sheathed blade he was holding. “While you didn’t seem very interested in the contents of the Troll hole, I thought you would appreciate this.”

Sakura lifted an eyebrow and took the blade from him. She drew it from its scabbard with one smooth motion and held it up, admiring the way the morning light played along the bare steel. It was definitely of Elven make, no Dwarf would forge a blade with this one’s sweeping double-sided curves. She supposed for an Elf it would be a large dagger, but for a Hobbit it made an admirable short sword — and it must have been made for a child, because the hilt fit her hand. Which meant ...

“A bit hard to skin a deer with this,” she commented as she tried the balance with a few swings (and found it superb, of course, though the blade’s shape was nothing like the wakizashi used by the ancestral style her mother had passed on to her). She glanced out of the corner of her eye and fought back a laugh at Gandalf’s nonplussed expression.

“Perhaps, but it will glow when Orcs are near,” the Wizard offered.

“Really? Elves don’t believe in sneaking up on their enemies, do they?” He gaped down at her, and now her high cheery laughter rang out as she sheathed the sword and took off her belt to slide it through the scabbard’s belt loops. Later she’d have to figure out how to sling it across her back, keep it from dragging on the ground if she needed to sneak up on someone ... or, considering she had spent the last decade living in a Fantasy novel, some _thing_. “Thank you, really,” she said once she’d fought her laughter under control and had the sword settled on her hip. “Come on, let’s get back to the camp before Thorin changes his mind and sends out those search parties, after all.”

She was turning toward the camp when she paused, frowning in concentration for a moment as she caught the sound of something crashing through the undergrowth. The noise was rapidly growing louder, and she drew her new sword as she whirled around to face behind them — whatever was coming through the forest toward them was approaching _fast_. Then perhaps the oddest sight of her life to date burst from the forest to circle the clearing — a dog sled being pulled by _rabbits_ ... and _big_ rabbits, almost big enough one could put saddles on them and give rides to Hobbit younglings!

The Man riding the sled was only slightly less odd: male; dressed in a tattered, multi-layered leather robe and a fur cap; a long brown beard streaked with gray ... were those _bird droppings_ spilling down one side of his head?!

Gandalf had whirled about when she had, drawing a Man-sized Elven sword (also presumably loot from the hoard, since he hadn’t had it before). But at the sight of the newcomer, he relaxed and resheathed the sword. “Radagast the Brown.”

“So you know this Man?” Sakura asked, straightening as she shook off the shock of the sight of the odd arrival. Then the name caught up with her. “Wait, is _this_ another Wizard?”

“Yes, he is, in some ways a greater one than I.” Gandalf glanced down quellingly at Sakura’s snort. “I would think that after the past weeks of travel, you would be less ready to judge on appearances.”

“What are you ... oh.” She blushed as she realized that Gandalf had recognized how the Dwarves had been treating her like a child, and her growing frustration with their inability to see past her appearance — and that she had just done the exact same thing. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“No harm done,” Gandalf replied. As they watched the newcomer slow to a halt, he smiled ruefully now that he’d made his point and added, “I will admit that he is not the most ... imposing of my Order.”

/\

Sakura absentmindedly thanked Bombur as she accepted a bowl of morning gruel, her eyes fixed on the two Wizards walking toward the east side of the clearing where they’d be out of earshot of everyone else. Radagast had been unwilling to discuss what had brought him all the way around the south terminus of the Misty Mountains and up along its west face to seek out Gandalf where anyone but his fellow Wizard, but it had to be serious to inspire such a journey.

Recognizing where her thoughts were headed, she briefly struggled with her conscience, then shrugged before closing her eyes and pulling her Cloak about her. . _They’re Wizards_ , she thought whimsically, _hoarding information the way a Dragon hoards gold is what they_ do. Excuse firmly in place, she sauntered across the clearing in the Wizards’ wake, angling her approach to come at the two conversing Men from one side ... and coincidentally away from Thorin. He had been so shocked at the arrival — and appearance — of the new Wizard he had neglected to berate her for wandering off alone, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold her temper if he started in on her now. Besides, she was curious, and it wasn’t like they would be more forthcoming later.

“— must be bursting with Orcs!” Radagast was saying. “I don’t know what they’re getting provisions, the newcomers flooding in every week can’t possibly be bringing enough for those already there.”

“They’re probably stretching their supplies by killing off and eating their weakest — ‘weakest’ being defined as ‘unable to avoid being added to the stewpot’,” Gandalf remarked with a grimace. “But this isn’t the first time the Enemy has brought Orcs to Dol Guldur, why do you think this isn’t simply another test of Lothlorien’s borders?”

“Before, the Orcs came from Mount Gundabad to the north or from Mount Gram through Moria, but these Orcs came from the south — from Mordor. More, there is this.” Radagast reached into his robes to pull out a foot-long object wrapped in cloth. He offered it to Gandalf. “When I was tracking the latest group of Orcs, I was attacked by a Wraith. It wielded this.” Gandalf accepted the bundle and untied the binding. Flipping back the cloth, he glanced down and sucked in his breath. His eyes flew up to stare at Radagast, and his fellow Wizard nodded. “The First of the Nine has risen, Gandalf. And the others were buried with him — if he walks Middle Earth once again, so must the rest of the Nine!”

 _Orcs? The Enemy? Nine what? What are they talk —_ Sakura gasped as stories the rangers had told her sprang to mind, and she realized just which Nine Radagast must be referring to — and who the Enemy they served had to be.

Abruptly aware of her presence, the two Wizards whipped around to stare down at her, eyes widening to find her standing only a few paces away. _Oops...._ Sakura smiled weakly as she offered them the bowl of gruel still in her hand. “Breakfast?”

Radagast looked confused, but Gandalf seemed to be swelling with anger, he opened his mouth ... and all three whirled to face the nearby forest, Gandalf and Sakura drawing their new swords, as a loud howl rang out.

Behind them and off to the side, Sakura heard Bofur call out, “Was that a wolf? Are there wolves out there?” Sakura could understand why the toymaker sounded confused, they hadn’t heard wolves at all on their journey and shouldn’t be now — wolves formed packs during the lean winter months, for hunting larger prey — but ... _No_. She had heard wolf howls before, the War had allowed the packs introduced to some western national parks to spread when ranchers that would have killed them fled their ranches or died, and that howl had been much to deep and loud.

Apparently Dwalin agreed, and when Sakura shifted to bring the Dwarves into sight while keeping her eye on the woods he was hefting his battleaxe. He called out, “Wolves — no, that is not a wolf. Get back—”

Bofur shrieked as a canine form exploded out of the woods, bounding straight at him. He fell backwards, lifting an arm to try to fend it off, then shrieked again as the monster-sized wolf’s jaws closed on the offered limb. Then Thorin was there, savagely slashing at the wolf’s exposed neck with another sword twin of Gandalf’s. His sister-sons were running toward him, Fili with shortswords in hand and Kili with strung bow and nocked arrow, when Fili whirled, drawing his bow at fresh crunching of forest undergrowth. His arrow took the second charging giant wolf in the chest, and as it collapsed and rolled toward the pair Dwalin’s axe split ribs and sliced through lung as it chopped into the beast’s heart. “Warg scouts!” the tattooed Warrior shouted, yanking out the axe with a bright red splash of blood. “An Orc pack won’t be far behind!”

Sakura realized she had unconsciously been running toward the fight as fast as her short legs allowed, Gandalf and Radagast pulling ahead of her, and she caught up, panting, in time to see Gandalf glance down at the dead beasts and whirl toward Thorin.

“Who did you tell about our quest, beyond your kin?” the Wizard demanded.

Thorin stiffened. “No one.”

“Who did you tell!?”

“No one, I swear! What in Durin’s name is going on?”

“These are Gundabad Wargs, not Mount Gram,” Gandalf said grimly. “We are being hunted.”

Radagast spoke up. “I’ll find out what is out there.” He looked up at the open sky and whistled sharply, then whipped off his fur hat and Sakura’s eyes widened to see — _Are those_ birds’ nests _in his hair?!_ Her shocked supposition was proven right when several song birds flew out of the holes that the hair on top of the Wizard’s head was formed into ... and yes, those _were_ bird droppings running in a streak from those holes down the side of Radagast’s head.

Then the Wizard staggered slightly, a massive hawk’s red wings flaring as it landed on his shoulder. The two song birds landed on the hawk and all three birds listened with cocked heads as Radagast twittered at them. Then the song birds flew away into the forest to the east, while the hawk launched itself from the Wizard’s shoulder and climbed up into the sky.

Thorin watched birds fly away, then turned to the Dwarves gathering around. “Oin, see to Bofur’s arm. The rest of you, get the ponies loaded up. We —”

“No!” Sakura surprised herself by shouting out.

The Dwarves turned to stare down at her. “No?” Thorin asked, voice dangerously calm.

By now, Sakura’s brain had caught up with her mouth. “No.” She waved a hand at the dead Wargs. “The ponies will never be able to outrun them, our only hope is to hide. And we can’t hide with the ponies. We’ll have to take their bridles off and leave them, along with most of our supplies — weapons, bedrolls, some cram, that’s it.” (She suppressed a shudder — Ohtar hadn’t been wrong, when he’d compared cram to MREs years back. Actually he’d understated it, cram was actually much worse — at least some varieties of MREs were pretty good.)

Thorin stared at her for a long moment, then nodded to the other Dwarves. “Sakura is right, do as he says.” As Sakura headed toward her own bedroll (and her bow, left behind unstrung when she’d joined Fili and Kili for sentry duty, she really _had_ been on a lark!), she heard him ask Gandalf, “Do you know of anywhere around here we can hide?”

“Yes,” Gandalf replied, “but it is out on the plain. We would be seen and run down before we could reach it.”

Radagast, head tilted up to watch the circling hawk high above, said, “I’ll draw them off.”

“These are Gundabad Wargs,” Gandalf scoffed, “they will outrun you.”

“I have Rhosgobel Rabbits,” his fellow Wizard replied, “I’d like to see them try....”

/oOo\

Thorin’s two hands gripped the hilt of his new sword with an intensity that turned his knuckles white as Sakura Piper darted out onto the open plain from the eastern edge of the woods where that bizarre Wizard’s song bird had led them. Thorin could hear the fading Orcish battle cries and baying of Wargs as they pursued Radagast on his rabbit-pulled sled, but from his own cover he couldn’t see them. Not that he would have been watching them even if he could, his eyes were fixed on the waif-like form of the party’s burglar as he went to ground beside the closest of the rocky outcroppings that were scattered across the grassy plains up to the edge of the Misty Mountains, his strung bow in hand and arrow nocked if not drawn.

Thorin had desperately wanted to send Nori ahead — as a hunter and (hopefully) former thief, he was the stealthiest of the Dwarves — but the Hobbit had taken offence at the suggestion, demanding to know why they’d brought him along at all if they weren’t going to let him _do_ anything!

It had been a fair point, so now Thorin could do nothing but watch the Hobbit crouch-walk to peek around the outcropping, memories washing through him of the rescue he’d led of his niece Arlais from the Men that kidnapped her, how he’d rampaged through the brigands’ encampment, reaping lives like a farmer at harvest as Arlais clutched at Balin and sobbed into his chest, the Heir in Exile’s chief advisor gently holding her. Thorin knew Sakura was nothing like Arlais — male, years older than she’d been then, with a lifetime of experience the Dwarfling hadn’t had revealed in how the Hobbit had handled the encounter with the Trolls the previous night. Still, Arlais shared the ruby-red hair that framed their burglar’s thin, pale, ethereal beauty and Thorin could not seem to keep from seeing her when he looked at him.

Then Sakura was motioning them forward, and the Dwarves burst from the forest and raced to join him, Thorin bringing up the rear to make sure everyone kept up with Gandalf beside him.

As soon as everyone had joined him, Sakura motioned to Gandalf. “Which way?” he murmured.

Gandalf glanced around, peeked around the outcropping to the south, then pointed to the east and somewhat north. He whispered, “That way.”

For some reason the Hobbit winced, but he nodded, peeked around the outcropping, waited for a long moment ... then darted off ahead toward the next outcropping in the direction Gandalf had pointed.

The party slowly made its way from outcrop to outcrop, Sakura taking the lead with Gandalf and Thorin right behind him (Dwalin ordered to bring up the rear), and Thorin quickly realized that in their haste they’d made a mistake because only Gandalf knew where they were headed, no one else — including Radagast. That bizarre Wizard with his rabbit-drawn sled hadn’t been boasting, he really _could_ run rings around the Orc pack. And he did just that, robes flapping in the wind as he charged about and over the rolling hills and around rocky outcroppings, the shouting, baying mob desperately trying to keep up. Thorin even saw him knock one Orc right off his Warg by leading him under an outthrust spur of rock too low for the Orc to clear. But that was the problem — Thorin could _see_ him. The circling, twisting chase kept leading the pack within sight of the fleeing party, even crossed their path once, all it would take to ruin everything was one Orc glancing in the direction of Wizard, Hobbit (well, maybe not so much), and thirteen Dwarves crouching down out in the open instead of focusing on the sled leading the pack on. It was all Thorin could do not to shout at Radagast to _lead the Orcs SOUTH_ before their luck ran out.

Then it did, and Thorin froze when he heard a rock clatter down the side of the latest outcropping they were hiding behind, the snuffling of a hunting beast sniffing the breeze. He slowly looked up and winced to see above them a single Warg-mounted gray-skinned Orc in mismatched bits and pieces of armor, scanning the landscape from atop the outcropping. If the Orc glanced down ...

Thorin looked down at the Hobbit beside him, and winced. Sakura’s grip on his bow was steady, he was slowly drawing back the arrow — but his face was pasty-white and his chest was rising and falling like a bellows at a forge as he fought not to pant. Thorin turned his head to look at Kili on his other side. His sister-son was stiff with fear, but his short bow was also in hand with arrow nocked and his eyes were fixed on his uncle.

Thorin nodded at his shortbow, motioned with his head up toward the Orc.

Kili nodded stiffly. He took a deep breath, slowly drew his arrow back, then with one smooth motion stepped away from the outcropping, whirled around, raised his bow and fired ... at the Warg!

The shot was clean, slamming into the Warg’s chest, but the massive creature merely staggered to one side. The Orc on its back gaped down at his attacker for a moment before lifting a horn to his lips, and Sakura’s arrow took him in the chest just as Kili’s second arrow knocked the horn from his hand. The wounded Orc slumped to one side and the overbalanced, staggering Warg toppled sideways to send them tumbling down the side of the outcrop to land a few paces away. The Orc somehow rolled to his feet and ignored the arrow stub in his chest to run screaming toward the Dwarves waving his blade, only for Bifur and Fili to step forward shouting their battle cries and take him down with spear and sword ... and Thorin’s heart froze as Sakura leaped past them with drawn bow to face the massive, howling Warg climbing to its feet behinds its rider. The Hobbit’s arrowshot took it through an eye from mere feet away and he lithely dodged to one side to avoid the dying beast as it collapsed forward and rolled up against the dead Orc. Thorin started breathing again.

“Quiet!” Sakura shouted from where he was braced on one knee, shaking hand fumbling at his quiver for another arrow, and the shouting, questioning Dwarves fell silent ... and the Hobbit’s shoulders slumped as in the fresh quiet the sound of baying Wargs grew louder. “They’re coming this way,” he said between gasping breaths.

“This way!”

Thorin looked around at Gandalf’s shout to see the back of the Wizard’s billowing gray robes as he ran to the north away from the rapidly approaching Orc pack. “After him!” Thorin shouted, breaking into a run after the Wizard. “Dwalin, carry Sakura!”

“Wait, no, I can — put me down!” For a moment Thorin grinned as he ran even as his eyes searched the surrounding hills for any Warg-riders flanking them.

Then his smile vanished as Warg-riders appeared on hills on each side, running hard as they angled in to cut off the racing Dwarves. Ahead of him Kili shouted, “They’ve cut us off!” His eyes cut forward past the Dwarves stumbling to a halt ahead of him to see more Warg-mounted Orcs coming straight at them, and he looked around frantically. “Gandalf, where —” There was no Wizard to be seen, and he snarled as pure anger flooded through him at the betrayal. Not that he’d ever be able to repay it. “Rally here! Here, to me!” he shouted as he strode over to the closest rocky pile thrusting up from the plain, too narrow and sharp for the Orcs to climb. At least the Orcs would pay dearly for their lives.

Bifur and Ori reached him along with Dwalin, their Hobbit still slung over his shoulder. The warrior swung Sakura down and set him on his feet, and the burglar whirled toward Thorin, drawing a deep breath for what was likely to be an epic rant.

“No time for that, Sakura, we have killing to see to,” Thorin growled before the rant could start, his eyes scanning around and the rest of the party huffing and puffing toward their position, the Orcs slowing down and bunching up to hit them as a body. Kili had paused a score of paces out for his first shot at their pursuers, and Thorin grinned viciously as the closest Orc fell back off his Warg with an arrow protruding from the middle of his forehead.

For a moment, an image flashed in front of his mind’s eye: Arlais, ruby hair shining in the sun as the stunningly beautiful maiden that terrified Dwarfling turned into over the years said her farewells to her brothers the day they left on the quest. He glanced down at the equally ruby-haired waif beside him, bow in hand with arrow nocked, waiting for a target. The Hobbit was still too pale and his face shiny with sweat, but his breathing was easing. “It seems all I’ve done is lead you to your death, little one,” Thorin said with regret.

Brilliant lapis lazuli eyes glanced up at him for a moment, above a tight smile. “Don’t concern yourself, Thorin,” Sakura replied as he resumed watching the gathering Dwarves and Orcs circling around them. “This is how I expected to die, just ten years late.”

“Still, it’s a poor —”

“Over here, you fools!”

Thorin whirled at the shout and relief swept through him at the sight of Gandalf’s pointed weathered gray hat and staff rising from behind a large boulder at the foot of a nearby hillock about ten paces away. “It looks like you get to live, after all,” he murmured, then pointed at the Wizard and shouted, “There, to Gandalf, go, go, go!” With Dwalin on one side and Sakura on the other and the rest of the Dwarves that had already joined him following behind, he raced over even as Gandalf again disappeared from sight, and glanced down the hole revealed behind the boulder — a short drop followed by a slight incline down to a tunnel floor some thirty feet below. _Good enough_. He took up station on one side of the hole. “Everyone down the hole, now!”

Dwalin leaped up onto the boulder and dropped down into the hole, quickly followed by Dori, Nori, Oin, Bifur ... Below, Thorin could hear Gandalf counting off each new arrival. _Sakura!_ He glanced around, and suppressed a sigh when he found the Hobbit standing on the other side of the hole, eyes scanning the Orcs with bow at the ready. Thorin almost absentmindedly slaughtered a riderless Warg charging in from the side (he reluctantly acknowledged that Elves had made _fine_ blades) and, as more Dwarves dropped down, called, “Sakura, down the hole, now!”

When the Hobbit ignored him he _did_ sigh, then reached across the hole to grab Sakura by the back of his leathers, pick him up, and drop him down the hole. Ignoring the echoing high-pitched shriek, he yelled, “Kili, get over here, now!”

His sister-son took one last shot, spilling yet another Orc corpse onto the grass — the closest of a scattering of corpses stretching across the plain — before turning to run toward his uncle. Thorin glanced around, didn’t see anyone else. He called down into the hole, “Gandalf, how many down there with you?”

“Twelve!”

Good, that was everyone.

Then Kili was leaping over the boulder and into the hole. Thorin waited a few beats to give his sister-son time to get out of the way, then turned his back on the fast approaching Orcs and stepped off the edge to drop down after him.


	7. Give Me the Meltdown!

Sakura shrieked as she fell into the dimness of the pit, half in fear and half in pure anger. She could not _believe_ Thorin had just dropped her like a sack of turnips! She twisted frantically to get her feet underneath her, to face into the coming roll instead taking it on her back — and Gandalf’s long arms snatched her out of the air, swinging with her momentum to deposit her safely on her feet.

She clung to him for a moment as she caught her balance. _He’s stronger than he looks_ , she thought, feeling the hard muscles of his forearms through the sleeves of his robe, then shook away the thought as unimportant at the moment. She released him and stepped away to quickly glance around the small cavern she found herself in, then focus on the hole she’d been so peremptorily dropped through as she renotched arrow to bowstring. There were still two Dwarves up on the surface, but no guarantee that it would be a Dwarf that dropped through next — there was no way that the Orcs had missed the rapidly diminishing number of prey for them to catch, or where they’d been disappearing....

But the next one to drop down was a broadly grinning Kili, the overly handsome Dwarf’s eyes seeming to almost sparkle with excitement in the dim light of the cavern, followed by Thorin. She ignored the Dwarf that had manhandled her — there’d be later to deal with that, there’d be Orcs following them any moment — turning toward Kili instead only for Dwalin to beat her to it. The burly warrior shouted, “Kili, get an arrow to that bowstring! They’ll be right behind —”

A horn sounded, cutting across the Dwarf warrior, and he fell silent as that echoing call was followed by both harsh Orc and high liquid battle cries, skirling steel against steel and shrieks of pain, apparently surrounding the hole in the small cavern’s ceiling. In the midst of the cacophony, a gray Orc appeared to teeter on the hole’s edge, then plummeted down to slam into the lower incline and roll across the stony floor to lie twitching at Thorin’s feet for several beats before going limp with a sigh even as two arrows, from Kili and Sakura both, perforated chest and throat.

But those weren’t the first arrows, and Thorin stooped to grab hold of the broken shaft of another arrow protruding from the Orc’s eye and yank it out. He examined the arrowhead, then threw it aside in disgust to clatter across stone. “Elves,” he ground out, glaring up at the ceiling as if he could see through the stone to the battle above by sheer force of will.

For a moment the cavern was silent, then Gandalf sighed and motioned toward a tunnel entrance in the back wall that Sakura hadn’t noticed before. He quietly said, “We should be on our way.”

Thorin transferred his glare from the ceiling to the Wizard, but after a long, fulminating moment jerked a nod and stalked past him toward the tunnel. “Let’s go,” he ordered.

The other Dwarves exchanged uneasy glances, then Dwalin hastened to push ahead of his king as the rest fell into line behind. Gandalf and Sakura brought up the rear with the Hobbit all but backing up as she kept an arrow nocked and her attention on the tunnel behind them.

/\

Sakura stumbled as _something_ swept around her: fluid, caressing, welcoming, but like nothing she’d ever felt. Recovering her balance, she hastily glanced around to find herself still in the tunnel. Only ... the light was much too bright for a tunnel. For that matter, how was it lighted at all? She glanced around at the rough stone walls on each side that clearly had never been touched by human tools — or Hobbit, Dwarven, Elven, or whatever other sentient races were out there. Which meant no sconces for torches or lamps. She looked up — and froze in place, so suddenly that Gandalf behind her almost knocked her over.

The tunnel was no longer a tunnel, it was a crevice; she could see cloudless blue sky directly overhead. It was as if something — or some _one_ — had simply reached down and pulled the surface apart, just enough for a party to walk along in single file. But the light — _It’s not possible. The angle of the sun ... it’s not directly overhead, it’s like an invisible mirror is reflecting the light straight down._ She glanced around ... no shadows, though the light _was_ somewhat dim, soft.

She looked up at the gray-bearded Wizard standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder, smiling gently down at her.

Wait, behind her? But _she_ had been last, guarding —

She twisted under Gandalf’s hand, desperate to look back along the crevice behind him. “Gandalf, the Orcs — !”

“— Cannot follow us here,” he assured her. “No creature touched by Darkness can find the entrance to this path. Not that there are likely to be any survivors of _that_ Orc band able to search for it ... any left will be fleeing for their lives.”

Her shoulders slumped with relief, and she unstrung her bow then reached up over her shoulder to slip it back into its sheath. (She was happy to still have it, somewhere along the way she’d dropped the arrow she’d had nocked.) That done, she looked around as she resumed walking after the file of Dwarves. Something was different ... _she_ was different. She felt lighter ... her mind felt clearer. In fact, she hadn’t felt this good since ... _Since we left the Shire, or at least since Bree. What is going on?_ She whispered, “Gandalf, where are we?”

She could hear his smile in his voice from behind her as he murmured, “You can feel it?”

“Well, yes, it feels like ... well ... I’ve never felt anything like it before, I don’t know what it’s like. But it feels like ... home?”

Gandalf softly chuckled. “What you are feeling, my dear Master Piper, is magic — a very powerful magic of Elrond’s upon the land. It isn’t from the same source as the Shire, but I believe the effect is somewhat the same.”

“The _Shire_?” Sakura whirled to face the Wizard, walking backwards as she demanded, “What effect are you — ?”

Dwalin’s voice echoed from the head of the line: “There’s sunlight ahead!”

Glaring at Gandalf for a moment to let him know their discussion wasn’t over but merely postponed, Sakura turned around and broke into a jog to catch up. A few moments later she exited the crevice and froze in place as she stared: the Company was standing on a ledge high up a canyon wall, and she gazed across lush trees — beech and oak, not the pines like where they’d encountered the Trolls — and flowering undergrowth covering the canyon floor and climbing both sides. There were scattered buildings too spread out to be called a town but too many to be anything else, their architecture all smooth curves, open rooms and covered walkways to complement the flora when they didn’t simply vanish into it. And water everywhere, running down the canyon walls in rivulets, streams, even small rivers. She felt tears prickling in the corner of her eyes at the sheer beauty of the scene and the peace that seemed to settle over her like the soft, plush, warm blanket fresh from the dryer that her mother had wrapped her in before tucking her into bed on cold winter nights.

Still behind her, Gandalf softly called out, “Here lies the last Homely House east of the Sea, the valley of Imladris! In the Westron tongue it is known by another name.”

She breathed, “Rivendell....”

But apparently that same feeling of peace didn’t extend to everyone. Sakura was jarred from her rapt contemplation of the view when Thorin brushed against her as he stomped past, fists clenched, and she turned to watch the confrontation.

“This was your plan all along ... to seek refuge with our enemy,” Thorin snarled up at Gandalf as soon as he reached him.

“You have no enemies here, Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf replied with a sigh. “The only ill will to be found in this valley is that which you bring yourself.”

“You think the Elves will give our quest their blessing? They will try to stop us.”

Gandalf, by his tone clearly exasperated, snapped back, “Of course they will. But we have questions that need to be answered.” He stared down at Thorin until he grudgingly nodded, then swept past him, Sakura and the rest of the Dwarves to take the lead on the path down the side of the canyon wall. He called back over his shoulder, “If this is to be successful, it will need to be handled with tact ... and respect ... and no small degree of charm. Which is why you will leave the talking to me.”

Sakura fought to keep from giggling as she followed Thorin, finding herself in the middle of the company as the Dwarves parted at his gruff command to let him pass then followed after.

The walk down was rather pleasant, with the gorgeous view of the valley, songbirds singing their calls, and the scent wafting up from the flowers that lined the path, and Sakura actually found herself enjoying the day right up to the point that the path ended on a cobblestoned road ... one that led over a stone bridge without side walls or railing. The opposite end of the bridge was flanked by massive stone statues of what she guessed were Elven warriors; it was hard to tell since the figures were wearing some kind of segmented armor and helmets that reminded her of Greek hoplites (though the spears they held upright were much too short for the Greeks). Beyond the statues lay a semi-circular stone platform whose only exit she could see was a stairway leading up to the closest building.

And then she made the mistake of looking over the edge and froze at the sight of the river rushing underneath, a score of paces below. She froze, heart suddenly hammering in her chest.

“Sakura?”

She jerked at the sound of her name and looked up to find Balin beside her.

The white-haired counselor glanced over the edge of the bridge, then back up at her. “Afraid of heights, laddie? Just stay to the middle of the bridge and look straight ahead and you’ll be fine. Like Bofur.” He pointed at the toymaker now crossing the bridge, walking stiffly and staring straight ahead. Balin continued, “I’ll be right behind you.”

“I am _not_ afraid of heights,” Sakura huffed, then when Balin simply smiled knowingly she reluctantly added, “It’s deep water I ... have a problem with.”

“Easily fixed!” Fili cheerily announced from behind her. “The next lake we come across, we’ll just have to teach you how to swim.”

She turned to glare at the handsome young Dwarf. “I’ll have you know I can swim like a fish, when I have to,” she announced. “Almost drowning as a child just takes all the fun out of it, that’s all.”

Kili stepped alongside his older brother and arched an eyebrow while struggling to suppress a grin. “And when was that exactly, yesterday?” He yelped exaggeratedly when she punched his arm with a half-hearted growl.

Turning back around with a sigh, she stepped over to place herself _exactly_ in the middle of the span’s width, fixed her eyes on the stairway on the far side of the large cobblestone semi-circle the bridge ended at, took a deep breath, and started to walk.

It was the work of only a few beats to cross, though it seemed to take forever. As soon as she reached the end of the bridge she darted to the middle of the circular paved area and blew out the breath she only then realized she’d been holding. _Someday I’m going to have to get over that_ , she thought. _Maybe daily laps if I ever find a decent pool?_

As Balin and a chuckling Kili caught up with her, motion out of the corner of her eye caught her attention and she turned to see an Elf walking down another set of stairs toward the newcomers. He was dressed in a sky-blue robe with a crimson cape and a silver circlet vaguely resembling Celtic knot-work resting on his honey-blond hair, and moved with unhurried grace. She frowned thoughtfully. _Is that Elrond? He doesn’t seem much like the peaceful warrior the rangers described — peaceful, certainly, but a warrior?_ Then the Elf nodded acknowledgement to Gandalf and began to speak.

And she was promptly lost in the flow of words, stunned by the liquid speech and mellifluous tone of the Elf. He was speaking the same Quenya she had learned from the rangers, she _knew_ he was — word after familiar word was leaping out at her — but she was so focused on the sheer beauty of his voice that she wasn’t able to put the words together into coherent sentences. Though she did pick up enough to know that no, this Elf _wasn’t_ Elrond and she _thought_ they were going to have to wait for him to arrive. The spell was broken when Gandalf replied, his voice suddenly sounding as weathered as his face, asking where Elrond was. _Wow_ , she thought, _that man could sell ice cubes to Eskimos!_

The sudden clattering sound of horseshoes on stone yanked her attention away from Gandalf and the Elf, and she turned to see a cavalcade of mounted warriors in single file riding down the cliffside road toward the bridge the Company had just crossed, and she blanched as they trotted across the bridge without hesitation. _How can they_ do _that?!_

Suddenly hands were grabbing her shoulders and backpack to yank her toward the center of the platform, and Thorin and Dwalin stepped in front of her with sword and hammer at the ready while the other Dwarves closed in around her on all sides.

“What — ? You idiots! Let me out!” When the Dwarves ignored her, Sakura angrily tried to shove through the mob only to be pushed back. _Okay, now it’s on!_ she thought, fuming. She slid down to her hands and knees and thrust herself forward, actually knocking one Dwarf off his feet to tumble over her back (Bofur, from the fur cap that landed on her), and then she was through the ring of bodies! And barely managed to keep from tumbling into an outer ring of horses circling the Dwarves, oops....

She pushed herself to her feet next to Thorin just in time to see a dark-haired Elf in steel segmented armor like the statues spring from his horse in front of the Wizard and handed his reins to another Elf as he happily call out, “Gandalf!”

“My Lord Elrond,” Gandalf replied, then continued in Quenya, _“My friend. Where have you been?”_

_Oh, right, dark hair, Half-Elven ..._ this _is Elrond_. Sakura had forgotten that part of her friends’ description. At least his voice didn’t have the same mellifluous quality as the first, so she wasn’t getting lost in the music. That effect _had_ to be deliberate.

Elrond embraced Gandalf before stepping back and hefting his sword. _“We’ve been hunting a pack of Orcs that came over the mountains from Gundabad. We slew a number near the Hidden Pass. Strange for Orcs to come so close to our borders, something — or someone — has drawn them near.”_

Gandalf motioned to the company still bunched up in the center of the platform, though they had relaxed at the obviously friendly welcome. “That may have been us,” Gandalf said in the common Westron.

Well, _most_ of the Dwarves had relaxed. Thorin was still taut as a bowstring as he stepped forward.

Elrond inclined his head. “Welcome, Thorin son of Thrain.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow at the greeting. “I do not believe we have met.”

“You have your grandfather’s bearing,” Elrond replied. “I knew Thror, when he ruled under the Mountain.”

“Indeed! He made no mention of you.”

Sakura winced at the rude response, but Elrond ignored the brush-off, instead shifting his attention to the entire Company and spreading his arms. _“Welcome, guests, to my house and table.”_

“What is he sayin’? Is he offering insult!?”

Sakura rolled her eyes at the outburst as she glanced over her shoulder at the axe-hefting Dwarf behind her. “No, Master Gloin, he is offering food,” she replied tartly, “don’t be rude.”

“Ah, well ...” It was all she could do not to laugh at the red-bearded miner’s clear embarrassment. “In that case, lead on!”

Elrond’s lips twitched, but he only motioned over the first Elf that greeted them and whispered something to him, then waved invitingly to an archway to one side. “Come this way.”

Gandalf immediately followed, Thorin reluctantly behind him and the rest of the Dwarves falling into line with Sakura again in the middle.

The walk to the offered meal was as pleasant as the walk down the canyon trail had been, the seamless mix of wild and garden, the flowers’ perfume and she suspected even the birdsong all formed a harmonious whole. She suspected that the Dwarves didn’t care for it (so she thought from the mutterings she overheard of crude stonework and shoddy craftsmanship, and wonderings of how it couldn’t possibly last a century), but for her not even the small traditional Japanese rock garden her mother had created in memory of her lost home had ever been as soothing — however much family loyalty demanded she deny it, she just had to admit that having several millennia to perfect their Art just gave the Elves too much of an edge. Combined with the sense of peace that seemed to rest over the valley, it was just what she needed to settle her soul after the whiplashing her emotions had taken that day.

And then Thorin had to go and spoil it.

As Elrond and Gandalf broke off their conversation in Quenya as they walked through an archway opening into an open-air pavilion where a long table was set up with servants still laying out plates and utensils, Thorin stepped aside and waited as Balin, Dwalin and Bifur passed by. Then it was Sakura’s turn, and he caught her arm and pulled her aside. “I do not trust these Elves,” he murmured (as if that was supposed to be a surprise). “Stay close — go nowhere alone.”

And just like that, her sense of contentment vanished as all the accumulated grievances that the long day had simply heightened came roaring back.

“Stay close? Stay close!?” she shrieked. “You mean like when you push one of your best fighters into the middle of a pack of stinking Dwarves where s-he can hardly breathe, much less see what’s going on? You mean like throwing away the only archer available while _your nephew_ still needs covering fire while he’s running for the rallying point? You mean like charging to a rescue I didn’t need with every Dwarf in the company instead of packing up so we wouldn’t have to abandon badly needed supplies? You mean like not allowing me to hunt even though we need to stretch out those supplies? You don’t like Elves? I would never have guessed, it’s not like you didn’t offer insult after insult to an honest greeting from _our host_! You’re supposed to be a king, what the **hell** is wrong with you!?” She whirled away from the stunned Dwarf, then turned back. “And one more thing — I am a Hobbit, _not_ a Dwarfling, you can’t just drop me down a hole and expect me to bounce when I hit the bottom!”

With her high-shrieked diatribe finished, she turned her back on him again and strode away, passing the Dwarves still on the walkway. She wished for once that she was wearing boots — the tough skin and fur-like hair on her feet might render footwear unnecessary, but they also precluded a decent stomp. Reaching Fili and Kili at the back of the pack, she paused to shrug off her backpack, bow and quiver and thrust them at them. “Here, watch these for me,” she growled, then strode off. She could almost feel the two Dwarves’ astonished gaze boring into her back.

“Where are you going?” Kili called after her.

“Anywhere but here!” she yelled back over her shoulder. Reaching a stairway leading down to the valley floor they’d passed a few minutes before, she practically ran down the steps and stalked off through the garden at the bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to do a round of the rest of my stories, really I did, but this one just kept pulling me back! So I guess I'll try alternating between other stories and this one. The next chapter will be for _Coming Home_.
> 
> The chapter title come from the song by Rob Thomas, though it isn't a perfect fit.
> 
> Also, for anyone that hasn't noticed, Araceil has added some new chapters to her fabulous _Fate Be Changed_ over at FF.net, taking it past the Battle of Five Armies. Wonderful stuff!


	8. New Friends

Sakura sighed as she strolled along, enjoying the latest garden. As her anger had cooled the peace from before had reasserted itself, but by this point she was lost. That wasn’t something she minded all that much, really — the landscaping continued to work its magic, a balm to her soul after the frustrations of the past weeks — but she imagined at least _some_ of the Dwarves would be worried about her (though perhaps fewer than before, after her ranting at their king). Besides, she hadn’t had any breakfast and it was getting on to noon, she really ought to eat something.

Unfortunately, at the moment the landscaping ran to hedges along the cobblestone walkways, chest-high — to an Elf. Meaning they were well above her head, and she was essentially in a maze. She climbed up on one of the stone benches that were scattered around so she could see over the hedge and looked around, hoping to see anything familiar. She didn’t, but she was surprised to see an earth-haired Man — a young one, almost certainly not even a teenager. _And taller than me, dammit_. She was getting a little tired of being the smallest person around.

“Hey!” she called out, and waved when the boy looked her way. He waved back and she motioned for him to join her, then jumped down and sat swinging her legs on the bench as she waited, like she’d used to on the swing-seat on her home’s front porch. Moments later he appeared around the hedge at a run. He was dressed in ranger leathers, the same her own. But unlike hers, his had clearly never been out of the valley — they were much too clean.

“Hi, I’m Sakura,” she said when he slowed to a stop in front of her.

“You’re Sakura? The _Hobbit_ Sakura?” the boy responded. “Wow, it’s great to really meet you!”

Sakura stared at him in shock. “Wait, you _know_ about me?”

“Sure, the South Border Rangers talk about you.”

“You know the Rangers.”

“Yeah, I see them whenever they visit, they have the _best_ stories!” the boy enthused. “When I grow up _I’m_ going to be the most famous Ranger of them all. I’ll fight Orcs and guard the farmers and go on quests —”

“Woah, easy, easy!” Sakura said with a laugh, cutting off the flood of childhood dreams. “What’s your name?”

“Oops, sorry, I’m Estel,” the boy said, blushing, then hurried past his social faux pas. “What’re you doing in Rivendell? Are the other Rangers with you? Do you know any good stories?”

 _Other Rangers? Since when am I a Ranger?_ “No, none of the Rangers are with me, I arrived with a pack of —” _stubborn, sexist, arrogant ... no, not fair, not all of them_ “— Dwarves. And I’m afraid I got separated and lost.” She pushed herself off of the bench to drop to the walkway and grinned up at Estel. “Tell you what, you show me where I need to go, and before we leave I’ll tell you about the Trolls we ran into on the road.”

Estel eagerly agreed, and as the two walked along Sakura got him talking (chattering, really) about his life — which mostly seemed to consist of training, not that he appeared to have noticed that it was serious and not just games. If her own early training in her family Art hadn’t been similarly disguised as playtime, she might not have noticed it herself. Considering his Ranger leathers, Estel’s training in archery and woodscraft didn’t surprise her, though the fact that he had Elven as well as Rangers for teachers seemed unusual. What did surprise her, though, was the tutoring he was receiving in history and statecraft from Elrond himself, and that the boy wasn’t just another visitor, but actually lived in Rivendell. Clearly, this was no ordinary boy.

“Here’s the gate to the baths, it’s as far as I go. Mother won’t let me use them.”

Jolted from her ruminations by the announcement, Sakura found herself in front of a stone archway in a vine-covered wall. “Baths?” she repeated. “But I meant —” She paused as a thought struck her. _After weeks on the road and not bathing even as much as the Dwarves thanks to keeping my sex a secret, I_ stink _. And it probably isn’t going to be any easier to bathe in private now than it was then._ She smiled happily when she realized she was seeing _steam_ rising above the wall. “On the other hand I can always eat later, a bath sounds **heavenly**!” Glancing up at her guide, she asked, “Where do I find you later? I owe you a story.”

“Ask any Elf, they all know where to find me,” Estel replied. “See ya later, gotta run or I’ll be late!” Without waiting for a response, he turned and bolted back the way they’d come, skidded around a corner in the path and was out of sight among the hedges.

Sakura watched him until he was out of sight, the turned and stepped through the archway ... and felt instantly, absolutely, unalterably inadequate.

She found herself standing on the lip of a shallow, flat-floored bowl-shaped area open to the air. The floor was covered by mosaics of scenes of peaceful, daily life surrounding scattered pools whose seeming-random shapes and layout reminded her of puddles left by rain, some of the pools shedding steam. Along one side of the enclosure were a number of artfully ‘natural’ waterfalls, some of them also steaming. And practically every pool and waterfall was occupied by naked adult Elves of both sexes — they varied in height, short to tall (to her formerly Mannish eyes); and their hair color ran in all shades of blond from pure white to sunflower yellow and even a few strawberry blonds. But what they all had in common was a cat-like slim litheness and a pale, flawless, inhuman beauty.

She was frozen in place, torn between the aching need to get _clean_ and a sudden fear of exposing herself in that sea of perfection, when an Elf maiden lifted herself out of one of the pools and called out to her — the single Elf in sight with midnight-black hair. “Ah, Sakura, you’ve arrived! Please, join us.”

Sakura reluctantly walked down the slight incline to meet her. “You’re Arwen?” Elrond’s daughter — it couldn’t be anyone else, she was the only female half-Elven currently alive and only half-Elven had dark hair. “How did you know I was coming?”

“Ivorwen arrived a week past and let us know.”

“Eradon’s people are here?” Sakura asked, smiling broadly.

“No, she arrived alone,” Arwen replied as she led Sakura toward a set of stone shelves carved into one wall. “She told us that you were on your way, and that you are allowing the Dwarves to assume you are male. But I fear that she has already left to return to her companions.”

Sakura sighed in disappointment, silently vowing to have a long talk with her friends the next time they met. She appreciated the thought and if the warning had been the reason for the patrol that hit the Orcs she and the Dwarves might owe that message their lives, but sending Ivorwen off alone all the way to Rivendell and back had been insanely dangerous — if she had broken a leg or even sprained an ankle, she would have had no one around to help.

They reached the shelves, and from the folded piles of clothing it was obvious what they were for. Her hands went to the fastenings of her leathers, then paused. She _really_ didn’t want to expose her scars around all those flawless bodies.... She asked, “When the Rangers visit, do they bathe here with you?”

Arwen smiled encouragingly, and Sakura suspected she recognized how inadequate she felt. “Yes, they do.”

With a sigh, Sakura turned her back on Arwen and hesitated for a moment before removing her belt along with her new sword and holstered pistol, then slipped the sheathed sword off and wrapped the belt around the holster. “This is dangerous, _no one_ is to unwrap it,” she said, holding up the pistol and looking over her shoulder at Arwen, then when the Elf nodded she stashed it at the back of a free shelf. She began unfastening her leathers and stashing them on the shelf, and fought not to cringe when Arwen hissed at the sight of her naked back. Hastily stripping off the rest of her clothes, she turned to face her host, her hands twitching as she fought the temptation to wrap her arms around her abdomen and hide faded scars from knives and bullets. Why couldn’t Whoever had transformed her into a Hobbit have taken away the scars at the same time? “So where’s the soap?” she asked.

Arwen finished whispering something to another female Elf — the only one in sight actually wearing clothes — then turned back to Sakura as the other Elf hurried from the baths. “Right this way, near the waterfalls,” she said, then turned to lead the self-conscious Hobbit on a wandering path through the pools.

/\

Sakura sighed in pure bliss as she sank into the shallow end of one of the heated pools. Arwen and the other Elf maidens whose aid she had enlisted had insisted on babying their visitor — shampooing her hair and soaping her body until the water pouring down her from the heated waterfall finally ran clear and she was red from scrubbing (and a furious blush she hoped would be taken for more of the same). She had tried to refuse, but Arwen had hit her with what had to be the Elven version of the dreaded puppy-dog eyes she had once inflicted on her mother, and she had instantly caved. By the time Arwen insisted she lie flat as her hostess personally gave her a gentle massage, she hadn’t even tried to resist. Now she let herself float under the open sky with her head resting on the edge of the pool, luxuriating in the warmth seeping into her every pore.

A still-naked Arwen standing nearby finished a low conversation with another, berobed Elf — this one male, that Sakura had provisionally labelled a servant (or at least acting as one temporarily, she doubted any Elf stayed a servant for centuries, let alone millennia). As the Elf left the baths as quickly as the first one, Arwen slipped into the pool beside her guest. “Why don’t you give us a song?” she asked with a smile.

Sakura was so startled by Arwen’s request she tried to lift her head to stare at her and promptly sank. Getting her feet under her and her head above water, she sputtered out, “What!?”

Several of the Elves around were quietly chuckling or giggling, but Arwen simply continued to smile. “Certainly, among some peoples, isn’t it a guest’s duty to entertain her host in repayment for the hospitality? Why not with a song? The rangers speak highly of your singing. A song of your people — your _first_ people, not the Hobbits who have accepted you now. I know you’ve translated some of them.”

Sakura tried to stammer out a denial, but her heart sank when Arwen’s smile simply turned impish — the Elf knew she’d hooked her. “Oh, all right,” she finally huffed. She _had_ translated a number of songs into Westron, back when she had been learning the language. She had even sung a few of them for her Ranger friends — but she was _really_ going to have to have a talk with them about how much they gossiped about her with others.

She struggled to lift herself up to sit on the edge of the pool as she considered which song to sing. The first song that sprang to mind and was just as swiftly rejected was the one Bob had written after her squad had a ( _very_ luckily) far back row seat to the nuclear strike on Cheyenne Mountain; that choice was just an echo of her current grudge against the Dwarves, and would have just left her current audience confused — many of the Dwarves would have been as well, for that matter, though it might have traumatized the ones that survived Smaug’s assault on Erebor. (Everyone had had their own way with dealing with the constant stress of the War; where hers had been hopping from bed to bed with any man — and a few women — that showed an interest, Bob’s had been writing dirges. She had to wonder if any Russians had written similar dirges after the retaliatory strike on St. Petersburg.)

 _So if not ‘I See Fire’, which one?_ She started cycling through the songs she had translated as the minutes passed: too religious (after a decade she still didn’t know all that much about Hobbits’ religious practices — they didn’t often share those with Outsiders and she’d been uncertain of what the response would be if she asked — and she knew even less about those of the Elves) ... too many cultural references ... too raunchy ... too many cultural references _and_ too raunchy (though she did have to wonder what the Dwarves would make of ‘Banned from Argo’, their sense of humor seemed to be fairly earthy but sexual innuendos went over their heads).... She realized she was twisting the plain gold wedding ring on her finger and she remembered the perfect song for her own hopes for the future. (Another sign of how lackadaisical she had been, she’d have to start carrying the ring in her pocket — wearing a ring into combat was a good way to lose a finger.)

Smiling bashfully at her gathering audience, she said, “This is a very Mannish — and Hobbitish — song, so I don’t know how well it fits your own ways, but here goes.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began to sing in a soft, high, clear voice: “You'll remember me when the west wind moves, among the fields of barley. You can tell the sun in his jealous sky when we walked in fields of gold....” She sang of making love in golden fields under a summer sun, of promises broken and kept, of passing years and children playing in the fields where their parents had made love, and when her voice trailed off at the end she was surprised to find her cheeks wet with tears. She slipped back into the pool beside Arwen and briefly ducked under the water to wash her face clean, blushing furiously at the murmur of soft applause that swept through the Elves that had gathered to listen.

A shiny-eyed Arwen murmured, “That was beautiful, thank you.” She glanced over at an equally shiny-eyed servant standing nearby, the same she’d been talking to earlier. “And it seems my father is ready for us. Would you consent to an examination?”

Jolted from her bashful pleasure at her singing’s warm reception, Sakura said, “An examination? Lord Elrond? Why? I’m fine.”

“No, you are _not_ fine!” Arwen returned, “I performed my own testing while giving you the massage and you are malnourished ... badly.”

“What? Sure, rations have been a little short so we could stretch out our supplies, but —”

“Sakura, when you undressed, _I could count your ribs!_ ”

“Oh.” Sakura fell silent at the vehement response, remembering Arwen’s hiss when she’d stripped that had made her want to cringe. She shyly asked, “So you don’t think my scarring’s ugly?”

“What? Oh, no no no, Little One, nothing like that!” Arwen hastened to assure her. “It is true that Elves do not scar no matter how terrible the wound, but you know how closely we here in Rivendell work with the Rangers. There is no shame in scars honorably earned. Please, let us see what my father has to say.”

Sakura sighed at the inevitable nickname, but wearily levered herself out of the pool and onto her feet and accepted the towel the servant offered her. “All right, lead on.”

/\

Sakura bit back a groan as she finished her sixth wafer of lembas and lay back on the bed that Elrond had used for her examination, reflecting that Ohtar had definitely been right: lembas was _way_ better than MREs or cram. And she reluctantly admitted to herself that Arwen and Elrond might have a point as well — she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so full.

Elrond and Arwen broke off their whispered conversation in a corner of the room when she lay back, and Elrond approached the bed as Arwen slipped out of the room. Just looking at him made her blush — Sakura had been wearing a night gown a servant had given her and his touch had been much more impersonal than Arwen’s during the ‘massage’, but it had been no less intimate. She quipped, “So, Doc, am I gonna live?”

His lips twitched. “Oh, yes, you are in no danger of dying, though you won’t be leaving that bed for at least a week while you build up your strength. And I would prefer it if you waited another few weeks beyond that before you leave Rivendell.”

Sakura winced. “Thorin is _not_ going to like that,” she muttered.

“Yes, it is sad,” Elrond agreeing, putting on a sorrowful expression, “I will have to instruct the cooks to break out the venison, pork and bear for your companions’ table.”

“ ‘Venison, pork and bear’?” she repeated suspiciously. “Just what _are_ you feeding them?”

“Oh, celery, lettuce, carrots, other produce from our gardens,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug.

“Salad?” she exclaimed incredulously. “You’re feeding Dwarves _salad?_ ”

His lips curving into the same mischievous smile she had seen on Arwen’s face in the baths, Elrond replied, “Dwarves have certain ... expectations of Elves. I would be a poor host indeed if I did not at least attempt to meet them.”

When Arwen returned several minutes later with strips of cloth that Sakura could use to bind her breasts before the Dwarves visited her, it was to find their guest practically rolling on the bed, clutching at her sides as she howled with laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estel is a very young Aragon. His age is canonical, at this point he is ten years old and fatherless, being raised in Rivendell by his mother with Elrond for a father figure. He isn’t due to learn of his royal heritage for another ten years. He isn’t supposed to officially meet Arwen for another ten years, either, but I’m going with the idea that word of a female Man/Hobbit Ranger from another world has pulled her back from Lorien a few years early.
> 
> Yes, _I See Fire_ is the song from movies. Just consider the lyrics to be tweaked a bit to fit different circumstances. All three songs are on Youtube, I consider the Peter Hollen cover of _I See Fire_ and the Mary Black cover of _Fields of Gold_ to be the best.
> 
> In the movie _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , Legolas said that one small bite of lembas was enough to fill the stomach of a grown man. Merry and Pippin had eaten four entire wafers, each. Sakura’s in somewhat more dire straits than they were.
> 
> And no, I don’t buy the idea of vegetarian, humorless Elves. Besides, Bilbo’s encounter with Elrond includes a few chuckles.


	9. Revelations

At the open-air pavilion where the Company had sat down to dine, Gandalf was thoroughly enjoying the meal. Not the salad that had been served, that was far from the usual fare for Rivendell’s tables, but rather the entertainment the Dwarves were providing as Elrond’s prank played itself out. Only two flaws kept his enjoyment from being perfect.

The first was Thorin, hunched over in his seat at one end of the table. Rather than the offended disgust that Gandalf had expected, the king in exile was so caught up in his own thoughts that Gandalf doubted he even realized what was on his plate in spite of the fact that he had been staring at it since it had been placed in front of him — certainly, he had been eating the crisp, raw lettuce and carrots without so much as a grimace.

The second flaw was that the two people that would have gotten the most pleasure from the spectacle weren’t present to enjoy it as well. Sakura hadn’t yet made his way back to the Company, and Elrond had been called away soon after it had begun.

That Sakura was still missing was a surprise though not anything that Gandalf was worried about, at least not when it came to Sakura’s safety. Rivendell was one of the safest places in all Middle Earth, but the Hobbit had to be very angry indeed if his anger hadn’t yet subsided under the influence of the Peace on the valley. _Perhaps he is simply embarrassed by now_ , Gandalf mused. _I shall have to seek him out later, provide some encouragement. We can’t afford to risk losing our burglar_. However much of a puzzle that burglar might be.

Elrond, on the other hand _was_ something to worry about, or at least wonder. He had gone to some effort to set up his prank, whatever had pulled him away before he could properly enjoy it had to be serious indeed — and curiosity over what it could be was beginning to eat the Wizard alive. _Sakura missed one of a Wizard’s defining flaws, I think_ , Gandalf mused with a self-deprecating smile, _curiosity has gotten me into almost as serious trouble over the centuries as a desire to ‘meddle’._

“That tinkle-twinkle ain’t music!” Gandalf shook himself free from his thoughts and suppressed a grin as he looked over at Bofur, the toymaker apparently not overly fond of the soft, soothing strains of Elvish harp and flute — an addition to Elrond’s prank, Gandalf was certain, Elrond must have learned of Dwarvish tastes in music over his long millennia.

Bofur leaped up onto the table and had just started to dance, the ear-flaps of his hat bouncing to his steps as he belted out what he claimed was a _real_ song about the Man in the Moon when Elrond strode through the doorway and paused, an eyebrow lifting at the sight of a Dwarf prancing among the cutlery, plates and glass goblets. When Bofur froze in place and started to stammer out an apology, the Elf lord waved it off. “No need to halt the festivities on my account, I only need to speak to Mithrandir and whichever of your Company is acting as your healer.”

 _That_ got the entire Company’s attention but especially Thorin’s, and he jerked upright and growled, “What have you done to our burglar?”

“Sakura has come to no harm since his arrival,” Elrond assured them. “However, he does have some possible issues going forward. It is, however, for him and your healer will tell you what you need to know.”

Thorin stared at him for a long moment, then jerked a nod at Oin, the graybeard listening intently through his ear trumpet. “See what the Elf ... what Lord Elrond has to say.” Turning back to Elrond: “Master Oin is an apothecary, the closest we have to a trained Healer. He brought what potions and herbs he could.”

Oin nodded and rose along with Gandalf as Bofur jumped down from the table and the Wizard and apothecary hurried to join Elrond as he turned to lead them from the pavilion.

The tall Elf led them to a nearby room with stuffed armchairs and open, airy windows, what walls there were covered by bookshelves. Elrond quietly requested privacy of the Elves that had occupied two of the chairs before rising at his entrance, and they bowed and left.

As soon as they were alone in the room, Elrond waved the other two toward the vacated chairs as he seated himself in the room’s previously vacant third chair. Once seated, he gazed at his guests for a long moment before sighing. “First, something that Sakura wishes kept in strict confidence — you have a young Hobbit _lass_ accompanying you, not a lad.” Wizard and Dwarf snapped upright in their chairs, as Elrond added, “She felt that she would not be allowed to join you if her true sex was known, and had some qualms with taking a months-long journey with thirteen strange males, even if they are vouched for by a Wizard. However, as your Company’s healer” — he nodded to Oin — “I felt you should know. But please do not let this go any further until she is ready.”

“A maiden,” a stunned Gandalf murmured, as he dug into his belt pouch for pipe and pipeweed.

“Indeed,” Elrond agreed with a sly smile. “That the Dwarves missed it doesn’t surprise me, they know nothing of Hobbits. But you, old friend, are getting as old as you seem if you can’t see the obvious after your long association with the Shire.”

Gandalf loftily ignored the gibe, grumbling as he relaxed back into his chair. He lit his pipe and got it drawing even as he mentally castigated himself. In retrospect it was obvious what had happened, of course, he had become so focused on their burglar’s more ... esoteric oddities that he had missed the normal ones — like a missing adam’s apple.

“But that is incidental at the moment,” Elrond continued. “What I need to know now, Gandalf, is why Sakura is still alive.”

Gandalf choked, dropping his pipe as smoke puffed out of his nose and the corners of his mouth. He cleared his throat and hastily poured some wine from a decanter that one of the Elves had left behind and gulped it down as Oin leaned forward, turning his head slightly to make certain his ear trumpet was pointed at Elrond, and demanded, “Still alive? But ... why wouldn’t she be? You said she is unharmed!”

“No, Master Dwarf, I said she had come to no harm since her arrival. She has not, this she brought with her. She has been unwittingly starving herself for a decade, eating no more than three meals a day — less when she was with the Rangers and in the weeks since she joined your Company. She informed me that Hobbits typically eat seven meals a day, but she had believed that to be much too excessive.” He held up a hand, cutting off the obvious question from Gandalf. “She had good reason to believe as she did but that is her story to tell, you will have to ask her. What I need to know, Gandalf, is why she is not long dead instead of verging on collapse when she arrived here. I know much about Elves and Men, but you are the only one among the Wise that has made a study of Hobbits.”

Gandalf bent to pick up his pipe and examined it for damage as he thought. Finally, he said, “It could only have been the Hobbits’ magic that saved her.”

Elrond raised an eyebrow as Oin shifted his ear trumpet back and forth between Wizard and Elf. Elrond said, “I was unaware that Hobbits practiced magic.”

“They don’t,” Gandalf replied, “they _are_ magic. As Dwarves are one with the bones of the earth that they shape and admire and Elves are one with magic itself that binds all that lives together, so too are Hobbits one with all that grows. That connection works both ways — any land that Hobbits long inhabit will flourish and no darkness can long abide there, but Hobbits as well draw strength from that land. They do not have the hardiness of Dwarves or the nimbleness and immortality of Elves, but they have an endurance and natural resistance to all works of the dark unequaled by any other people. That demands its price in appetites even greater than Dwarves, at least for their size, but also provides the bounty they need to support such appetites — and more, as the ... plumpness that most of them come to share as they age demonstrates. They could probably get by with five meals a day with no ill effect.”

“I see,” Elrond mused. “So Sakura has been eating somewhat more than half of what she needed, rather than well less than half. That and the endurance you mentioned enabled her to resist the effects of starvation for years. But then she left the Shire — a land that Hobbits have inhabited for centuries.”

“And that weakened her endurance even as she ate even less than before,” Gandalf finished. “What a mess.”

“True,” Elrond agreed. “Still, it is well that you brought her with you. I do not think she would have lasted another year even with the support of the Shire. Now, I am asking her to keep to her bed for at least a week and she will be heartily sick of lembas by the time she leaves it, but she will be fine.” Turning to Oin, he added, “But when you leave you will have several additional backpacks filled with lembas; she will need one full wafer a day in addition to your usual meals, two wafers if your rations are short.”

“I’ll see that it’s done, my word on it,” Oin agree with a nod, then hesitated before asking, “Can we see her? Thorin, certainly, will demand to see personally that the lass is all right. Even if he thinks she’s a lad.”

“Of course,” Elrond agreed instantly. “But she was dozing off when I left her with my daughter. Let us finish the feast before we all go trooping in and wake her up.”

Gandalf hid a grin when Oin winced, and noticed Elrond’s lips twitching. Yes, their proper and upright host, famed far and wide for his hospitality, was determined to enjoy his little joke as much as Sakura’s circumstances permitted.

/oOo\

As the pack of Dwarves came barreling through her sickroom door, Sakura looked up from the book Arwen had fetched when she’d been unable to sleep for long and asked for something on the history of the Rangers. (The story of the island of Númenor and the new name of Atalantë — the Downfallen — the survivors gave it after it sank had her wondering how much contact there’d been between her world and Middle Earth.) “Enjoy your banquet?” she asked with a sly grin as she bookmarked her place and handed the large book to Arwen. The Elf maiden had been sitting beside her on the bed to help her with the more esoteric words she would encounter in the book’s ancient Quenya and now rose to stand against the wall, leaving Sakura the center of attention.

“It was horrible!” Bofur exclaimed. “All water and fodder for ponies, and not a decent song to be had. Ow!” He rubbed the side of his head where his brother Bifur had slapped him as the graying Dwarf with the axe blade imbedded in his forehead berated him in Old Khuzdul. (At least, Sakura assumed the slightly addled Dwarf was berating him — for all she knew Khuzdul was like Russian, where simply reciting a recipe in the right tone of voice was enough to make the ignorant turn pale.) “Anyway, it wasn’t a complete loss,” the toymaker continued as his brother wound down, “it turns out the swords we found in the Troll hoard are famous enough to have names. Lord Elrond said that Thorin’s is Goblin Cleaver and Gandalf’s is Foe Hammer! They were lost when some place named Gondolin fell.”

“Really? That was over six thousand years ago!” Sakura glanced over where her own small sword was lying on a side table, wrapped up by her belt along with her holstered revolver.

Balin followed her gaze and said, “No, la ... ddie, names are for the great swords, not daggers and knives.”

Sakura met his gaze for a moment, wondering at his brief hesitation with ‘laddie’. _Does he know? Probably._ But it seemed he was going to keep her secret, however he’d figured it out, and she finally shook her head with a smile. “You’re wrong, Balin, that is a sword, not a dagger, made for an Elven child — and not a very old one; the hilt is sized for a small hand. And what child could resist naming his first sword? But I doubt anyone alive knows what that name is, so I’ll just have to honor that child by coming up with my own.”

Balin frowned thoughtfully, then nodded. “I believe you’ve the right of it. Still, six thousand years? It must be an interesting story, how those swords got from ... Gondolin? ... to a Troll hole.”

“Especially since Gondolin — along with most of the rest of Beleriand — sank into the ocean less than a century after the city fell,” Sakura added, “when the Valar came to the surviving Elves’ rescue and took down Morgoth.” Her eyes strayed to her sword again. “I hope that child had a chance to grow up, that was not a good time to be a little one.”

From the chair against the wall he had taken, Thorin murmured, “No, such times never are.”

The room fell silent for a moment, as everyone’s thoughts turned to a _Dwarven_ city that had fallen, and the refugees that had fled the catastrophe, until finally Gandalf broke the quiet from where he was standing beside one of the room’s wide windows.

“It seems you have your own interesting story to tell, according to Lord Elrond. He claimed you had a good reason for being so misinformed as to almost starve yourself to death.”

“And he didn’t tell you,” Sakura surmised with a grin. “He really is as courteous as they say. I’ve been wondering for weeks when you’d actually ask.”

“Yes, well, now that I’ve spoken with him ...” Gandalf started to say, then trailed off.

Sakura’s grin widened — _‘...and I trust his word’ probably doesn’t seem like the most politic thing to say at the moment_.

Then she sobered as her stomach started to churn — she’d been enjoying playing with Gandalf’s suspicions so much that she’d forgotten that she’d eventually have to _talk_ about it. _I should have asked Elrond to tell him, I’m sure the Rangers passed on everything. Oh well, no help for it now...._ “Right, straight from the horse’s mouth.” As the Dwarves exchanged confused looks at the odd phrase, she glanced around with a forced, tight smile and began.

“The short of it is that until ten years ago I was neither a Hobbit, nor living in Middle Earth. Instead, I was a Man and a member of a small company of ... well, our term is Special Forces, we’re a highly trained version of a scout, like the Rangers. We were in the middle of an already years-long desperate war, and my company would get sent deep into enemy territory for independent strikes at important targets.

“So, on my company’s last mission we were given a new toy to test, a device that, if it worked, would yank its bearer from wherever she was to a set spot without travelling over the ground in between — just, one moment you’re wherever you ... ‘pull the lever’, and the next moment you’re scores of leagues away. The device had a couple problems, though. First, if any of the company ‘pulled the lever’ _all_ of us would go, not just the one, so _nobody_ could jump out until the mission was done. And second, it had only been tested under perfect conditions, and out in the field was far from perfect. By the time we’d managed to finish the mission, I was the only one still standing and even I’d taken a few hits.”

She felt the bed shift as Arwen settled back down beside her, an arm slipping about her shoulders to gently pull her against her new friend, and realized she’d been staring at the wall across the room as she spoke, over Thorin’s head, and without being aware of what she was doing had pulled up her legs to hug against her bound chest. _I have to look like a little flame-haired urchin!_ (She’d noticed that for some reason Thorin seemed fascinated with her hair.) _So much for getting them to stop treating me like a child — and after I ripped Thorin a new one over it, too...._ She let go of her knees and squeezed Arwen’s hand as an unspoken thanks, then gently removed it from her shoulder as she straightened her legs under the blanket and took a deep breath.

“So, mission done I ‘pulled the lever’, and ... I don’t know, maybe we were too far away, maybe we were too spread out, maybe something got jarred loose from all the bouncing around ... anyway, the device didn’t work. Instead of taking us back home I found myself floating in an airless, lightless void, cold probably beyond anything possible on Middle Earth, not even the far reaches of the North. I blacked out within a few beats and woke up a days later in bed in one of Bilbo’s guest rooms, about half as tall as I used to be with fur on my feet.” She forced a shrug, as nonchalantly as she could manage, then realized she was twisting her wedding ring on her finger and let go. “That’s pretty much it. Once I learned enough Westron to understand the story, Bilbo told me how I appeared right in the middle of Hobbiton then shrank down into a Hobbit in front of everyone, but nobody knows Who brought me here or why. So, any questions?”

“Were you winning, ‘laddie’?”

Sakura hid her wince at Dwalin’s concerned tone ... and the slight emphasis he’d put on ‘laddie’. _Someone else that knows. Are they talking to each other, or each keeping quiet thinking that they’re the only ones to figure it out?_ Simply shrugging again, she said, “We were losing ground, but we knew that would happen when we were hit from three sides, each of the invaders at least as big an army as our own. But they were paying in blood for every furlong they pushed us back, and every city they captured was one more they had to garrison, each furlong taken one they had to move supplies through — with my company and others like us lurking around the edges waiting for any opportunity to strike, rebellions of common folk rising in their rear. Our leaders were saying the invaders were already overextended, that even if our last armies collapsed they didn’t have enough left to hold what they’d taken; but what else were they going to say, that we’d probably lost and we should give up and go home? I don’t know ... I’ll never know.”

The Dwarves exchanged uneasy glances; Oin started to say something a couple times and broke off each time. Then Thorin straightened in his seat and quietly asked, “Sakura, just how old are you?”

This time Sakura couldn’t hide her wince. _Damn! I was afraid he was going to ask that._ “Twenty-seven,” she reluctantly admitted.

“Twenty-seven!?” Ori — the youngest Dwarf in the Company — all but shrieked. “You’re younger than me!”

Dwalin’s concern was more historical. “You had only seventeen years when you were sent to war?” The knuckles of the hands resting on the axe he was leaning on where he stood beside his brother were turning white, and his question elicited shouts of outrage from other Dwarves.

“Easy, easy!” Balin called out, quieting the room. “Sakura was a Man,” he pointed out, “they don’t live as long as Dwarves, surely they mature faster.”

“Yes, they do,” Gandalf agreed. “But Sakura, you were seventeen when you arrived here. How many years before that were you at war?”

“Almost three, I was fifteen when I went on my first mission. But that wasn’t normal,” she hastily added, “usually the Army didn’t take any recruits younger than eighteen. I was an exception thanks to my family’s Art.” Of course, the civilian guerilla bands took anyone capable of carrying a rifle however young they were; and used young children as spies, messengers and lookouts; but she didn’t mention that.

“A family Art,” Gandalf repeated. His voice was thoughtful but his gaze was oddly sympathetic ... and Sakura realized she was drawing her knees up towards her chest again and quickly stretched them out. _I need a drink_. In fact, she wouldn’t mind getting smashed like the last time she’d talked so much about her past, that night at the inn in Bree when she’d ended up drinking herself unconscious and woken up the next morning curled up in Ivorwen’s lap.

After a moment’s thought, Gandalf asked, “Do you mean whatever allowed you to stroll up to a pair of Wizards engaged in a private conversation? I’d never felt anything like that before.”

“Yes, that’s part of it,” Sakura hastily agreed, thankful for the change of subject. Though she had to suppress a wince at Gandalf’s slight emphasis on ‘private’ — she’d have to find a private moment of their own to assure him that she wouldn’t be mentioning anything to the Dwarves about the Nine walking about again. _Wait, did he say — ?_ “You _felt_ that? Wow, that’s a first, so much for being extra-sneaky around Wizards. I wonder if it’s just a Wizard thing, or if Elves would pick up on it, too?”

“I assure you, it was _quite_ effective,” Gandalf replied dryly, “I only felt it like a ... a fog, clearing away from my mind when you drew attention to yourself. Just what _did_ you do?”

“That was the Veil. It doesn’t actually make me invisible — after all, all the Dwarves watched me walk right up to you.” She smiled impishly at the Wizard. “Our minds filter everything we see, focusing on what seems important and ignoring the rest. The Veil just convinces those around me that I’m not important.” She shrugged. “It isn’t as useful as it sounds — it doesn’t work on people that are already watching me, isn’t as likely to work on an alert guard as on someone just strolling by, even less so on someone actively hunting me. And it works better on people than animals, like guard dogs.”

“Still, to cloud a Wizard’s mind is very impressive,” Thorin said, again relaxed in his chair, “I am beginning to see why Gandalf’s vision led us to your home. But you said that was _part_ of your Art?”

“Yes, I did.” Sakura gazed at the Company’s leader for a long moment, considering whether she should admit her true sex now that he was thinking of her as an asset. _No, not yet, I can’t chance it_ , she reluctantly decided. _Let’s get away from Rivendell and_ really _out into the Wilds first, where there’s nowhere for him to just drop me off_. Finally, she shrugged yet again. (She seemed to be doing that a lot, that evening.) “Yeah. Mostly the Art is just what you’d need to be a top-notch scout —” And spy and assassin, but she wasn’t going to mention that part. Besides, that aspect of the Art wasn’t taught to the children, and with the War she’d never learned it. “— though there are a few more esoteric aspects. The main one is Featherwalk. That one allows me to lighten my weight, to the point that if that —” She pointed up at the ceiling. “— was made of paper, I could walk across it without falling through. That’s good for climbing and being _really_ sneaky — floorboards don’t creak and twigs don’t snap when you’re that light.

“Those are the only two we use enough to have fancy names for. Beyond that there’s a couple more: shutting out pain; and increasing strength, speed and how fast I can react. But those are _really_ dangerous in combat, used only in the most desperate circumstances.”

Standing beside his seated uncle, an excited Kili spoke up. “Why? I’d think those would be a big help in a fight!”

“Seem like it, doesn’t it?” Sakura replied, smiling faintly as she felt herself relax a bit more — the handsome young Dwarf’s usual happy enthusiasm was infectious. “But no. Pain is your friend, your body’s way of telling you something’s wrong, and if you shut it out you can _really_ mess yourself up — try running a few miles on a broken ankle, and see how long it takes you to recover. As for increasing strength and the rest, you body isn’t built to handle it; push it too far, and you can end up with ripped muscles, torn ligaments, even broken bones ... _not_ something you want to have to deal with a hundred leagues from help with half an army searching the countryside for you.”

“Well, yeah,” Kili agreed, “but what about —”

Sakura suddenly found herself lifting a hand to cover an ear-to-ear yawn, and Arwen was just as suddenly off the bed and on her feet. “Enough! Out, it’s time for my patient to sleep,” the Elf maiden ordered. “There will be plenty of time for you to finish your questioning.”

 _Oh, yeah...._ Sakura blushed. “I’m sorry, guys, I tried to insist that now that I know about how much I need to eat we could pack extra lembas and I could catch up on the road —”

Thorin instantly cut her off. “No! No, we can wait a few days. I need to meet with Lord Elrond about the map, anyway.”

“Map?” Sakura asked. “What map?”

The Dwarves looked startled for a moment, before Balin nodded. “Of course, we had already put it away along with the key before you arrived. You see —”

“Out!” Balin’s mouth snapped shut at Arwen’s shout, just as Sakura yawned again, and her self-appointed nurse waved toward the door with an attempt at a stern frown that simply looked _cute_. “As Master Thorin said, you have a few days, explain it in the morning after s-he has had a night’s rest.”

The Dwarves chuckled but cheerily acquiesced and the room quickly emptied.

Once the last of them left, Sakura pulled off her borrowed night gown long enough to unwind her breast wraps as Arwen went from window to window to draw across the curtains — not that it was really needed, the sun was setting. That done, Arwen returned to the bed to tuck the blanket about her patient.

“I _am_ twenty-seven,” Sakura grumbled, though without any real heat.

“I know,” Arwen agreed, though sounding amused, “but I also know that Hobbits don’t reach their majority until they are thirty-three.”

“What!” Sakura bolted upright. “You can’t —” She broke off at a gentle finger against her lips.

“No, I won’t tell them. But you _are_ young yet, whether you acknowledge it or not. If you must, consider it practice for when I have my own children in the millennia ahead.”

“Oh, all right,” Sakura grumbled, lying back down. She felt like a fool, but ...

Arwen tucked the blankets about her again, then leaned down to lightly kiss her on the forehead. “Sleep well, my friend, may your dreams be peaceful this night.”

Sakura yawned as a gentle warmth seemed to flow through her from where Arwen’s lips had pressed, she suspected that had been a little more than just a friendly kiss — maybe she’d even escape the usual post-combat nightmares. “G’night,” she mumbled as she closed her eyes. She was asleep before Arwen reached the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, an info-dump talkfest, with three major subjects. At least it’s out of the way, I hope I at least managed to keep it somewhat interesting. It would have been a little shorter if I hadn’t tossed in the bit about the history of the swords, but that history is one of the biggest examples of retconning in the Silmarillion. What Sakura didn’t mention (because she doesn’t know) is that Glamdring was forged for Turgon, the king of Gondolin, lost when Turgon died in the final defense of his city. And when the Company brings the sword to Rivendell, Elrond calmly identifies the sword and hands it back to Gandalf like it isn’t a literally priceless relic!
> 
> So, on to the meeting of (most of) the White Council, and that’ll pretty much wrap up Rivendell, and then it’s on to the Misty Mountains!
> 
> And credit where it’s due, Sakura almost starving herself to death is lifted from Araceil’s story, though I believe my take on Hobbit ‘magic’ is a bit different from hers.
> 
> Two side notes: First, over at FF.net I’ve been enjoying entling’s Hobbit story _Here There Be Dragons_ , in which a dragon/elven half-blood that grows up with Bilbo joins the Company. Entling does a fine job of adding Luin to Tolkien’s setting. You’ll have to search by the story title rather than writer, though, for some reason “entling” doesn’t come up.
> 
> Second, I stumbled across an interesting review of _The Hobbit_ (the book, not the movies — the columnist doesn’t care much for them), by a columnist that few will find deliberately. Enjoy: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/peculiarpeople/2015/02/the-hobbit-by-j-r-r-tolkien/


	10. Night Terrors

Sakura crouched low behind the bushes that ran along the driveway, watching the hilltop mansion twenty yards away as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon. She’d drawn the Veil about herself and the crunch of the gravel that covered the driveway signaling the approach of a sentry walking his rounds didn’t worry her. The Red offensive over the past few weeks had been a smashing success in this sector, and the Red troops were both flush with success and worn to the bone. She rather doubted the thought would occur to them that their success was deliberate, allowed in order to convince General Rodchenko to shift his headquarters forward — Rodchenko was the best general the Reds had, but he did like his comforts and there weren’t _that_ many mansions that both met his high standards and were strategically placed on the road network behind his army. And every one of those mansions had been booby-trapped before the U.S. Army had slowly fallen back, resisting all the way. _Just please, God, let him choose another one. Let the staff officers swarming around be for a corps or brigade commander_.

Then she heard the engine roar of approaching vehicles and the crunch of tires on gravel. In less than a minute several of the Russian version of Hummers came up and around the turn in the long driveway, followed by a stretch limo then several captured U.S. Hummers painted with the crossed hammer and sickle. The limo stopped in front of the mansion, an officer too cleanly dressed to have been in the fighting hurried down the steps from the entrance way to open the back passenger door, and her shoulders slumped as an elderly man in a general’s uniform with a face she’d memorized from photographs stepped out. It seemed her prayer hadn’t been answered. She watched as he returned the salute of the officer that had opened his door, then strode up the steps toward the front door and through with his staff behind him. Her thumb caressed the button on the small metal square in her hand that would set off the explosives in the secret room in the mansion’s basement. _Now. Now! Do it NOW!_

Her thumb pressed down.

/\

Thorin broke off his quiet conversation with his counselor when the Hobbit in the bed beside them began shifting about, murmuring something in a language the king-in-exile didn’t recognize.

The shifting grew stronger, almost to the point of thrashing, and Thorin and Balin exchanged glances just as the bedroom door swung open and an Elf maiden dressed in an open robe over a light gown hurried through, an Elf that even in the near-dark lightened only by the moonlight leaking through and around the windows’ curtains the pair recognized as the one that had been in the room when Sakura told them his story. She paused for a moment on seeing the two Dwarves seated in their chairs, then rushed over to the bed.

She was just reaching down to shake Sakura’s shoulder when Balin rose from his chair to catch her wrist. “Watch it, lass, you can never be too careful when waking up a warrior that isn’t sleeping well. I’ll do it.”

She nodded and stepped back.

Balin let go of her wrist, then reached over to shake Sakura by the shoulder. Like a striking snake, Sakura grabbed his wrist with one hand and tried to pull him down on top of him even as the other hand shot under his pillow. But Balin was a Dwarf with a Dwarf’s mass and low height, and all Sakura managed to do was pull himself along the bed toward him while feeling around uselessly under the pillow for what Thorin suspected was supposed to be the knife that had been snapped in half by the Troll, before Balin caught hold of his other wrist. _Yes, definitely a warrior_.

“Easy, laddie, easy, you’re safe,” Balin soothed until the struggling Hobbit abruptly went limp, then let go of his wrists and stepped back to again sit down.

Sakura sat up in the bed and hunched over, rubbing at his face. “Almost thirteen years, and I still dream about that first kill,” he murmured to himself, then looked up as the Elf maiden settled down beside him. “Arwen, what are you doing here? I wasn’t yelling, was I?”

“No, little one, I sensed your distress.”

“You ‘sensed’ my distress? That goodnight kiss wasn’t just a kiss, was it?”

Thorin’s eyebrows rose. Sakura had a fiancée, what was he doing — ? _Careful, don’t forget again that Sakura isn’t a Dwarf. He isn’t even really a Hobbit, and you’ve seen how ... exuberant Men can be, throwing out their deepest feelings for all the world to see. Or perhaps kissing near-strangers is an Elvish thing_.

Oblivious to Thorin’s shock, the Elf maiden — Arwen — replied, “No, it wasn’t. My father’s Peace on the Valley and all who dwell here should preclude such dreams, but I suspected you would be one of those stubborn enough to reject it.”

“Oh.” Sakura rubbed at his face again, ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, thanks for that. Good thing you weren’t the one to wake me up, though. More nightmares shouldn’t be a problem, but you might want to stash a pole in a corner just in case.” Shifting his focus to the room’s other two occupants, Thorin saw his eyes widen when he recognized them. “And what are you two doing here at this time of night? Please don’t tell me you’ve decided to guard me from the people that saved my life.”

“No, Master Hobbit,” Thorin replied, accompanied by Balin’s rumbling chuckle. He didn’t mention that Balin had had to talk him out of doing just that. Still, that didn’t mean the Dwarves couldn’t use their burglar’s bedroom as a place to relax as they recovered from their travels. “No, we’ve just met with Gandalf and Lord Elrond about the map, and needed a quiet place to discuss it.”

“Right, the map!” Sakura perked up. “You said it had come up in Hobbiton before I arrived.”

“Yes.” Thorin glanced over at Arwen, and Sakura huffed, rolling his eyes.

“Honestly, Thorin.... She’s Elrond’s daughter, is there anything important she’d hear that he doesn’t already know? And thanks for the courtesy, but please call me Sakura.”

“My thanks for the honor, and no, there isn’t,” Thorin agreed, happy that the faint moonlight leaking into the room was too dim to reveal his blush. He briefly related how Gandalf had given him the map of the exterior of Lonely Mountain and key to the secret entrance the map revealed; how the map and key had been given to Gandalf by Thorin’s father Thráin when the Wizard encountered him in the depths of the Necromancer’s dungeons at Dol Guldur, Thror so far gone that he had been unable to remember his own name much less that of his son. (Caught up in the horror of his story, Thorin missed Sakura’s start at the mention of that dark fortress, as well as Balin’s surmising frown.) He then went on to tell of his meeting earlier that night with Gandalf and Elrond.

“ ... and then the moon came out from behind the clouds, and the entire crystal I’d laid the map on lit up under the moonlight and fresh runes appeared: ‘Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks under the setting sun, and the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole’.”

“Huh. I’d like to’ve seen that.” Sakura lay back down under Arwen’s urging, and he frowned thoughtfully, before yawning as she tucked the blanket around him. Before Arwen could finish scolding him, he interrupted her to say, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll go back to sleep. Anyway, it’ll be nice to have a place to stash you all when I go in. I wasn’t looking forward to trying to convince you to wait for me in Laketown.”

Balin exclaimed, “What, la ... ddie, you were just going to go in through the Front Gate?”

The blanket shifted as Sakura shrugged before yawning again. “Why not? Sneaky, remember? If Smaug is sleeping, the Front Gate is as good a way in as any. If he isn’t asleep, it doesn’t matter what entrance I use.” His eyes had been drifting closed as he spoke, and his breathing soon evened out in sleep.

Thorin rose to his feet and stood for a moment gazing down at the sleeping Hobbit. Sakura was actually shorter than Arlais was now, but sleeping in an Elf-sized bed the redhead reminded Thorin so much of his niece when she’d been little that he smiled wistfully before allowing Arwen to shoo the two Dwarves out of the room.

For a time the two walked along through moonlit corridors in silence, until Thorin finally murmured, “Thirteen years, and she ... he still dreams about his first kill. At only fifteen years.”

“ ‘She’?” Balin repeated,

Thorin shrugged. “He reminds me of Arlais.”

“Ah ... yes, I can see it.” After a moment Balin sighed. “I wouldn’t say anything about his dreaming, to Sakura or any of the others. He has his pride, that one, he wouldn’t thank you for it. And while he wouldn’t last long on a battlefield, not as small as he is, he might have more experience in war than the rest of us put together. Certain, he’s the last person I’d want hunting me out in the Wilds. He’ll be fine. Yes, he’s young for it, then and now, but you know how fast children can grow up in such times.”

“Yes, those that survive.” Thorin sighed, then smiled wryly at his oldest friend. “You will permit me to worry about it in silence?”

“Like I could stop you from taking the burden all our fates onto your own shoulders,” Balin replied with a deep chuckle. “Let’s hurry it up a bit, you know the rest will be waiting up to hear what the map had to tell us, and I hate to think how much damage Fili and Kili do in frustration, what Nori doesn’t steal. And us here for another six days.”

/oOo\

_Earlier that evening:_

Gandalf glanced at Elrond as they walked away from the open platform where his longtime friend had revealed and translated the moon runes on Thorin’s map. No, from Elrond’s tightly controlled expression his friend was _not_ happy. Suppressing a sigh, the Wizard checked that the leather-covered bundle thrust through his belt was still there and said, “Really, I think you can trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Elrond demanded, his voice just as tightly controlled. “That dragon has slept for sixty years! What will happen if your plan should fail? If you should wake the beast?”

“But what if we succeed?” Gandalf rebutted. “If the Dwarves should take back the Mountain, our defenses in the East will be strengthened.”

But Elrond shook his head. “Have you forgotten? The strain of madness runs deep in that family — Thorin’s grandfather lost his mind, and gravely insulted Thranduil. His father succumbed to the same sickness and abandoned his people in their need for a hopeless solitary quest to recover the Arkenstone himself. Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall? That he will not bring more division when he does? Gandalf, these decisions do not rest with us alone. It is not up to you, or me, to redraw the map of Middle Earth.”

“It is not you or I that would be doing the redrawing. With or without our help, the Dwarves will march on the Mountain. They are determined to reclaim their homeland, and I do not believe Thorin Oakenshield believes he is answerable to anyone. Nor, for that matter, am I.”

Now Elrond did smile, a knowing smile that rang alarm bells in the Wizard’s mind. “It is not me you must answer to.”

Just then a shiver raced through Gandalf’s body as he passed through familiar magic, set to discourage others from paying attention to those within the warding’s boundaries (much like Sakura’s Veil, now that he thought on it). Within the warding was an open-air pavilion with a single stone table and four chairs, and a magnificent view out over the valley — a pavilion used perhaps once in a century: the site for meetings of the White Council. Even as he watched, the moonlight illuminating the scene seemed to collected itself, take shape, and then the translucent image of a tall Elf Lady with shimmering golden hair shot through with silver and draped in flowing sea-blue robes stood before them. Gandalf bowed his head with a respect he gave to no other mortal being. “Lady Galadriel!”

Galadriel smiled to see him. “Mithrandir, it has been a long time.”

“Time may have changed me, but not so the Lady of Lorien,” Gandalf replied with exaggerated courtesy, and smiled at Galadriel’s soft laughter.

“No, time has not changed you in the slightest degree,” she asserted, “you are as gallant as ever you were.” Smiling, she shifted her attention to their host as Elrond and Gandalf took seats and she shifted her sending to appear to sit with them. “Lord Elrond, how is the daughter of my heart? Has she yet made plans to seek out the Man turned Halfling that the Rangers have spoke of?”

Elrond sighed and with a rueful smile said, “No, as it turned out she had no need. Sakura arrived in Rivendell this day ... along with Gandalf and twelve Dwarves led by Thorin.”

“Truly. So the Dwarves are moving against Smaug.” She gazed thoughtfully at Gandalf. “And you pushed them into motion. Was that wise, Mithrandir? Smaug has grown as great as he ever will, every decade that passes allows the Dwarves to recover more of the strength they lost when Erebor fell and then in their failed attempt to retake Moria from the Orcs.”

With Elrond Gandalf had attempted to obfuscate and redirect. With Galadriel, he simply sighed as his shoulder slumped. “Your words are true, my lady, and it may well be that I have set in motion forces that shall destroy us all. But the fear has been growing in me that we no longer have the luxury to wait on events — that the Enemy is gathering his strength faster than we are, that if we do not act quickly, all will be lost.”

At this Elrond straightened in his seat. “Have you any proof of this?” he demanded.

“None until today, when Radagast sought me out just before we were attacked by Warg riders.” Gandalf quickly related what his fellow Wizard had reported of Orcs gathering in Dol Guldur, and being attacked by a Wraith. “And with his report he brought this.” He pulled the leather-wrapped bundle from his belt and untied the bindings before laying it on the table. Pulling open the leather, he revealed a long, thin cloudy-gray dagger.

Elrond sucked in his breath. “The Morgul-blade of the Witch-King of Angmar, the First of the Nine!” he breathed.

“And buried with him,” added a Galadriel turned pale. She gazed at the blade for a time, then slowly said, “This will not be enough for Saruman. He sees only Radagast’s eccentricities, and has long asserted that the Enemy is naught but a shadow clinging to his last refuge as he seeks to gather what scraps of influence he may.”

“Agreed, my lady,” Gandalf replied. “I fear Saruman has grown arrogant in his learning and power, and no longer listens to any counsel but his own. That is why I asked Radagast to bypass Isengard on his return around the southern end of the Misty Mountains and to make for where the Gladden River exits the Mountain Pass. I will meet him there after seeing the Dwarves to Mirkwood.”

Elrond slowly nodded. “So you will seek out the prison tombs of the Nine for yourself, to verify that they have risen?”

“Yes.”

Galadriel pondered for a time, then sighed. “It would seem that in this you have been wiser then we, my friend, you did well to encourage the Dwarves to take back what is theirs. Let it be as you say. My Lord Elrond, join me in Lorien and I shall send word to Saruman as well. We will there await Gandalf’s word, and as the full White Council discuss how next to act.”

Elrond agreed and he and Gandalf rose to make their farewells to the Lady of Lorien, only to pause when she lifted a hand and asked, “Mithrandir, why the Halfling?”

“I ...” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I was guided to Bag End by a Dream, and knew nothing of Sakura’s existence before she joined us there. Before today I knew nothing of her history other than that she had friends among the Rangers. She certainly is what the Dwarves will need to acquire the Arkenstone, but she is no great Warrior and has no desire to be so ... and I think perhaps that is why she was brought here. Saruman believes that only great power can hold Evil in check, but that is not what I have found. It is the small things that keep the Darkness at bay, simple acts of kindness and love, the common courage of common folk. Why Sakura Piper? Because I was sent to her by my Dream, and she gives me hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is a first for me, taken from the Tarot card the Nine of Swords. (I don't use Tarot decks for fortune telling but have picked up a number of them for the art, and they're handy for random character backgrounds and plots.) In this case there's Sakura that can't entirely let go of the horrors of her past; Thorin the same and obsessively worrying about the future and welfare of his Company and people; and Gandalf, Elrond and Galadriel terrified that they may have made a catastrophic error of judgment but with no choice but to bull their way through the situation they've allowed to mature.
> 
> Also, yeah, no Saruman at the meeting. In the "Lord of the Rings" movies Jackson mostly avoided having anyone teleporting around Middle Earth (except for Elrond bouncing from Rivendell to Rohan), not so much in "The Hobbit" movies. I'm shifting things around a bit to make travel times for Orcs, Elves and Wizards a little more reasonable.


	11. It Was a Dark and Stormy Evening

“There you are!”

Sakura cracked open her eyes at the call, looking toward the entrance to the baths where she’d first met Arwen. And the Elf maiden was there again, though this time it was her turn to be standing in the doorway. Her arms were crossed under her breasts with a small leather bag hanging from one hand, as she mock-glared down at her new friend.

Sakura’s shrug rippled the blissfully warm water of the pool she was soaking in. “Where else would I be?” she asked.

“Getting ready to leave like the rest of your Company?” Arwen suggested. “You were _very_ eager to leave your bed this morning.”

Sakura languidly waved off the objection. “Of course I was, I’d hardly left it except for nature’s demands for a _week_. It’ll be good to get back on the road, again.” And that was true enough. She couldn’t say she had been _bored_ over the past week, Arwen had been her near constant companion and had made it her duty to keep her patient entertained. And Sakura when she hadn’t been telling stories to Estil, she had polished her Quenya reading skills while learning more about the history of the Elves and the Men that had allied with them than she had in ten years of visits with her Ranger friends. But ... “It’s not like there’s another warm bath in my future for a _long_ time, though.”

“Maybe so, but your friends are wondering where you are,” Arwen replied as she took a towel from the shelves carved into the stone wall and walked toward Sakura’s pool. “Thorin was muttering something about another early start lost.”

Sakura sighed, but levered herself up out of the pool and accepted the towel, ignoring the feel of the attention of the rest of the bath’s occupants, though they were polite enough not to obviously listen in. “Considering how far we’re going, a few extra hours wouldn’t kill anyone,” she muttered as she began drying her flame-red hair, then glanced up suspiciously at Arwen when the Elf maiden giggled. “What?”

“Ivorwen used almost those exact words, when last she was here,” Arwen replied. “And even Elvish women prefer to linger. Perhaps it is a woman thing?”

“That’s just because you all like to gossip.” Sakura grinned as she flipped the towel behind her to get her back, and Arwen’s giggles briefly turned into clear, ringing laughter.

Calming, Arwen said, “Speaking of female Rangers ...” She reached into the bag she had brought with her, and pulled out a leather bundle tied with strings. “While Elves don’t need the herbs Men and Hobbits use to hold off their monthly blood, female Rangers visit often enough we keep a supply. I thought you would appreciate an additional bundle to see you through.” She smiled at Sakura’s exclamation of delight, then reached into the bag again and pulled out a sheathed knife, tiny in her hand because it was sized to Sakura. “Mithrandir said that your knife had broken during your encounter with the Trolls, so I asked Iyrandrar to forge a new one for you, based on the one Eradon showed my brothers.” She grinned suddenly. “It may not be of the same quality as the blade Mithrandir gave you, but it can skin a deer and _won’t_ glow when Orcs are near.”

Startled into laughter, Sakura accepted the knife. “Gandalf told you about that, did he?” she said as she drew the knife and held it up to the morning sunlight to examine the blade. It was just like the bowie knife she’d lost, but ... “ _Very_ nice. It may not be legendary quality, but I don’t think I’ll have to worry about _this_ one breaking on me. Thank you.”

“Anything that helps you return alive. The scabbard for your sword is finished as well, with straps so you can sling it on your back and a clasp for the hilt to keep it from sliding out if you have to hang upside down.” Arwen leaned down and with a knowing smile whispered, “I saw you didn’t pack any of the books. I’m surprised you were able to resist the temptation.”

Sakura blushed. “Yeah, right, like I’m going to haul along a book that weighs half as much as I do, just so I can do a little ‘light’ reading around the campfire. I’d need another backpack just to carry it. But I’ll be back, and the Shire’s closer than Erebor!” She ignored Arwen’s renewed giggles as she wrapped the long strip of cloth she was using as a breast band around her and pulled on her cleaned leathers, then smiled up at her friend. “So let’s find Gandalf and the Dwarves before they leave without me, it’s a beautiful day for a hike!”

/oOo\

Sakura grimaced and adjusted her hood as a thin stream of rain water slipped past her soaked cloak and down her neck to further dampen her leathers. _I really should have known better than to tempt fate_ , she thought, remembering what she’d said to Arwen. Everything had started out as beautifully as she’d hoped — just enough cloud cover to provide relief from the sun, pleasantly cool, the drifting sound of bird calls all around, and the beauty of mountains like she hadn’t seen in over eleven years. (When she’d appeared in Hobbiton it had been over a year since she’d been home, and most of the time her squad had fought in the eastern theater — and however lushly beautiful, the Appalachians just couldn’t compare to the Rockies.) It had had the feel of a family summer camping trip.

Then on the second day the clouds had thickened, rain had begun to sprinkle down, then occasionally hammer down, and by the time they’d cold camped ( _very_ cold, with the wet combined with altitude and dropping temperatures) on a rain-slicked rock ledge she was actually remembering her bed in Rivendell with a great deal of fondness — though there she had often had young Estel on the bed with her to while away the hours, the boy as enthralled by her stories as any Hobbit child.

The third day had been no better, if their camping spot hadn’t been so poor they would probably be there still, huddled in their blankets under what cover they could find or make.

Another gust of rain caught her in the face and she muttered a curse before leaning out to the side over the edge of the cliffside ledge they were making their way along, as far over as she trusted her balance so she could use the illumination from a lightning flash to look past Bombur just beyond Dwalin, along the line of Dwarves ahead of her. Still no Gandalf coming back. “Where _is_ that Wizard?” she wondered. “I’m the scout, _I_ should be the one scouting ahead!” She looked up at the overcast skies and caught more rain in the face when her hood slid back off her wet hair. She hastily pulled her hood back up. With the rain and thick clouds, it simply wasn’t possible to tell how advanced the day was, but it _felt_ late.

“Now, Sakura, remember what Dwalin said,” Oin responded from behind her. ( _Directly_ behind her — since Rivendell the Dwarf had turned into a positive fussbudget, constantly close by and asking if she was eating enough.) “Gandalf isn’t watching for ambushes, he’s making certain the path ahead is safe. And he may not be the heaviest of us, but he is the largest so any path he can navigate so can we. Have you had more lembas?”

She rolled her eyes just to make herself feel better, even if Oin couldn’t see it. “No, mother, I haven’t. It’s all in one backpack or another, and I am not opening up a pack in this rain and risking soaking the rest of lembas if I can help it. I’m hardly the only one of us that’s hungry, what with us not being able to find a place open enough to stop for lunch. Tomorrow I’ll make sure to keep a wafer tucked in my leathers.”

The Dwarf huffed, “I suppose so. But make it two wafers instead of one.”

“ _Yes_ , mother,” she replied, Ahead of her Dwalin’s deep chuckle rumbled out at the exchange, but she just smiled fondly, since Oin couldn’t see it and take her smile as encouragement to fuss over her even more. His fussing was already worse than the coddling she had suffered before Rivendell, but she couldn’t deny he had cause. And the suspicious edge that had all too often haunted many of the Dwarves’ interactions with her was gone, so she supposed she could put up with it ... for awhile. _Think of it as penance for being stupid_.

“Take cover!”

At Dwalin’s shout Sakura threw herself back against the cliffside, pulling Oin back with her as she searched wildly for the threat that had the veteran warrior sounding so panicked. Then some instinct had her looking up and she froze for a second at the sight of a chunk of rock the size of a _tank_ flying toward the cliff face above them, before dropping to crouch face down with her hands clasped over her neck and head for what little protection they could provide. Her backpack would have to do for the rest....

The boulder smashed into the cliff and shattered, shards raining down to clatter and bounce onto the ledge. She absently thought that they were lucky most of the rubble had bounced away from the wall as she rose to her feet and tried to see along the boulder’s trajectory, no way that had been a natural —

Balin pointed off at an angle. “This is no thunderstorm, it’s a thunder battle!”

Sakura felt a strong urge to curl into a ball and gibber as across the canyon part of the mountain peeled away to rise and walk! — and reach out to tear up another massive chunk of rock.

“Bless me, the legends are true!” Bofur screamed. “Giants! Storm Giants!”

 _Storm Giant, right. Get a grip girl — it’s just a magical version of a giant robot like in Danny’s manga, a fantasy war machine left over from the war with Morgoth, it must be ...wait, did he say_ giants _?_

Tearing her gaze from the Giant’s skyscraper-massive form to look around — yes, a _second_ massive form was lifting up from where it had been seated, to the crunching, thunderous, crackling accompaniment of dirt and loose boulders and even entire trees cascading down into the canyon as the crevices they had been rooted in for untold centuries rose up and walked. The first Giant stepped forward and ponderously swung a house-sized fist at the second that was just as ponderously ducked.

The world whited out for a moment with an ear-slapping _crack_ as a lightning bolt slammed into the second Giant’s head, then Sakura was clutching frantically at whatever cracks she could find in the suddenly tilting ledge’s surface as the Company proved to be trapped just below the knee of a _third_ Giant now rising to join the fight. For the first time in her life Sakura was too terrified to even scream, but her failure was more than made up by the Dwarves around her.

‘Their’ Giant stepped forward, right into the second one’s uppercut as it rose from its crouch. As fresh rubble rained down, ‘their’ Giant fell backwards to crunch into its just-abandoned seat.

“Come on! Move! Move! Move!”

At Thorin’s shout Dwalin grabbed up Sakura and ran forward along the ledge, jumped over a short gap (giving Sakura a split-second glimpse of a drop hundreds of feet deep into darkness). Behind them, the third Giant again rose to its feet and stepped forward, its thrusting fist smashing into the second one’s chest to knock it back, then turned to face the first.

“Count off!” Thorin called out from the head of the column. The Dwarves shouted out each one’s name in the called-for order, but even though it had been her suggestion when they moved into the mountains it took a nudge from Oin still next to her, crouched where Dwalin had put her down with her gaze fixed onto the battling titans, before she added “S-S-S-Sakura!” at the end of the list. But there’d been no gaps in the roll call.

“Cover!”

Dwalin again, but unneeded — everyone had seen the first Giant take advantage of the other two’s preoccupation with each other to wrench another boulder out of the opposite side of the chasm and hurl it at the third one. This time the boulder was _railroad car_ sized, and its impact broke its victim’s head free of its body to explode against the side of the cliff far above the Company, and the entire mountain seemed to shudder under Sakura’s feet and body pressed against ledge and wall when it was followed by the body crunching into the wall beyond them before collapsing down into the canyon.

A bellowed scream from beyond Dwalin yanked her attention away from the falling corpse. The impact of the Giant against the mountain had actually bounced Bombur away from the side of the cliff to the edge of the ledge, and a large chunk had broken off beneath his weight. Dwalin’s desperate grab for Bombur’s flailing arms missed, he was dropping out of sight ... and Sakura dove after him, shouting Dwalin’s name as she reached ... !

She caught the cook’s wrists, felt his hands twist to grab her forearms ... the very _hefty_ cook .... hands grabbed her just above the ankles, and she just had time to brace herself for the inevitable pain as she tried to pour strength into her arms and shoulders. Then Hobbit and Dwarf abruptly _stopped_ falling, Sakura screamed as one arm popped out of its socket, then her backpack slammed into the back of her head and knocked her forehead into stone wall, spangling her vision with stars.

/\

“Sakura! Sakura!”

Someone gently shook her by the shoulder, and she bit back a scream at the pain slashing through her when her _other_ shoulder was jostled. But Bombur’s weight wasn’t hanging on her arms anymore, and she could feel hard stone under her butt, against her back. She was back on the ledge, rain beating down on her. She forced her eyes open to find a wide-eyed Bombur sitting in front of her, cheeks wet with more than rain.

“You can let go now, laddie.”

“Wha ... ?” She glanced to one side to find Dwalin crouched beside her, the tattooed warrior’s eyes filled with worry. Then he pointed down with his chin (an odd tick she had noticed in those Dwarves with fuller beards — maybe an adult thing?), and she shifted her gaze to find her hands still locked around Bombur’s wrists. “Oops, sorry.” Taking a deep breath, she relaxed the extra strength she had poured into her arms and forced her hands to unclamp a finger at a time.

As soon as she let go, Bombur threw himself forward and pulled her into a hug, then just as hastily let go at her high, thin shriek. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!”

“It’s all right, you didn’t know,” Sakura gasped out as she carefully felt over her shoulder with her good hand and tried not to wince. Yup, definitely dislocated at least, maybe some of her ribs as well, a more thorough examination would have to wait until her arm was back in its socket. And she didn’t want to think about how her quivering muscles were going to feel in the morning.

Then another boulder came soaring out of the rain-dark evening sky to explode into shards against the cliff a score of paces away and up. In a brief lightning flash she could see the massive dim shapes of the two remaining Giant again closing to hammer away at each other. She winced, then tucked the hand of her dislocated arm into her belt and with the wall for a brace forced herself up to her feet. Ignoring the way the world swayed, she said, “Come on, we have to get out of here!”

“Yes, there’s a cave just a few paces away. Hopefully we’ll be safe there.”

Sakura forced herself to focus on the newcomer — Thorin. That seemed like a singularly _bad_ idea. “No, we can’t stay here, one of those things throws a rock or falls and collapses the entrance, we’d be trapped, don’t worry about me, I can keep up, okay, maybe not, but Dwalin can carry me half the night to get away from here,” she babbled out, before forcing herself to stop.

Thorin shook his head, though she could see a faint smile. “Yes, you’ll be all right, if you’re still able to tell me off to my face. But we can’t leave. Back there” — he pointed past her, in the direction they’d come — “a large chunk of our path got up and walked away. And back this way, a large chunk of the path was broken away when the Giant fell against it. For tonight at least, we’re trapped.”

Sakura stared at him, then shrank against the wall when one of the Giants fell toward them. But this time it caught itself, its hands crunching against the cliff wall, and only a spattering of small bits of rock rained down on them. She watched it push itself away and turn back to the fight, then squeaked, “A cave sounds wonderful, let’s get out of here!”

/\

Just inside the cave entrance where there was still some fading evening light (and where she could keep an eye on the still-fighting Giants), Sakura hissed as Dwalin eased her leathers down off her injured shoulder. (Oin had tried to insist that he was the healer, but Dwalin had pointed out that being an apothecary hadn’t prepared him for dealing with dislocated or broken bones.) _At least I managed to insist on some privacy_ , she thought as she shivered in the cool evening air. Her leathers had already been hanging open, all the ties loosened, but now her torso was left bare except for her breast bindings. Then she hissed again as Dwalin’s fingers probed her shoulder and down her back.

‘You definitely dislocated the shoulder,” he said, “but I don’t think anything’s wrong with your ribs, just strained muscles and bruises.”

“Well, at least that’s some good news,” she replied, then her nose twitched at the scent of stew. (Her offer to share her lembas as she wolfed one down had been roundly rejected.) “Let’s get this over with, I’m still hungry.”

Dwalin nodded. “Brace yourself, it’s going to hurt,” he warned.

“I know, this isn’t my first time. Do it.”

He hesitated for a moment. “Normally there’d be more men holding you down —”

“The only other person besides you I’m certain knows I’m female is Kili — you _did_ know I’m female, right?”

“I’d guessed,” Dwalin confirmed with a shrug. “When Thorin dropped you down to us during the Orc attack, your scream was rather high pitched. So was your rant that first evening in Rivendell.”

“Oh.” Sakura felt her cheeks heating up. “Just use your foot.”

Dwalin grimaced but nodded, and spread her cloak on the rock floor. She lay down and pulled her leathers over her front and side, took a deep breath, relaxed as best she could and nodded. Dwalin took hold of her arm, braced his foot on the leathers covering her to hold her in place, _pulled_ and _twisted_ as she fought back another scream, then she felt her shoulder pop back into place.

She sagged with relief, then pushed herself up to a sitting position. “Glad _that’s_ done. Let’s get me dressed and ... I suppose I can use my breast bindings as a sling. That’ll be a relief, actually, you wouldn’t _believe_ how they’ve been chafing with all this wet. You’ll need to get the knots, though.”

In the end, a heavily blushing Dwalin just cut through the bindings, then helped a by now practically shaking with cold Sakura back into her leathers and set up the sling.

Sighing with relief and eager for the fire, Sakura hurried around the bend deeper into the cave, and slammed into an unyielding body. Stepping back, she looked up into Thorin’s glowering face. _Oh, crap, I am_ so _busted_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another scene with a good bit “borrowed” from Araceil’s _Fate be Changed_ — generally, at least, I’ve decided not to reread it so at least the details can be mine. And I do rather like the reason I’ve come up with for Gandalf not to be around at this point. I think that Gandalf should have been more effective than he was in the book, and since the Company didn’t sneak out of Rivendell while Gandalf kept the White Council busy I couldn’t go with Jackson’s excuse that he hadn’t caught up yet.


	12. Strangers in the Deeps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One note on Goblins and Orcs, I'm following Tolkien's take where they are the same species, the only difference being "Orc" is Elvish and "Goblin" is Westron, rather than Jackson's take where they seem to be separate species entirely. So where the Dwarves refer to Goblins, thanks to her Ranger friends Sakura refers to Orcs. And yes, I may not have been exactly consistent before, I'll need to go back and check.

Thorin sat leaning against the stone wall of the cave, staring toward the entrance. Or rather, staring in the direction of the entrance — the supper fire was out, the shreds of cloud cover left over from the storm and the angle of the entrance meant no moonlight to speak of was reaching the sleeping company, and the night was deep into the second watch. _His_ second watch, actually, his own inner turmoil after his discussion with Sakura had led him to take the first watch and he was still too unsettled to sleep when it came time to waken Dori.

Not that it had been much of a discussion. He’d asked her why she’d come, and she’d ... he couldn’t really call it a rant, certainly not like in Rivendell. Her voice had been quiet enough that only he could hear her, and cold, and tightly controlled, and her words short. She’d called him a fool for not learning anything about the peoples he’d been living among during his exile, repeated the same reasons she’d given weeks earlier at Bag End, and ended with words that were still haunting him: _“I told you of my own home, that I will never see again. I will help you recover your own, if I can.”_

He wished he could turn the hours back, and prevent his accidental eavesdropping. _All I wanted to do was thank him ... thank her for saving Bombur’s life. Why_ didn’t _I thank her? Why did I have to start demanding answers first? Now when I do, it’ll look like I’m just trying to heal the rift._ He wished he could wake up Balin and talk out his confusion, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to reveal Sakura’s actual sex to anyone else. Kili knew, but was much too young. Dwalin knew, but lacked his older brother’s subtlety of thought — he wasn’t _slow_ , if anything he was smarter than Balin, he simply preferred the direct path (usually carved with a battleaxe).

_A female._ _Part of the Company, on the Quest. One that has already risked her life three times, and we aren’t even over the Misty Mountains yet. And Gandalf thinks she’s vital to the success of the Quest. What am I going to_ do _?_

The image of his niece when she was young enough to be as small as Sakura, wearing Sakura’s leathers and weapons flashed into his mind. He forced it away, but couldn’t help glancing toward where Sakura had settled down for the night between Fili and Kili after having her own bowl of stew. Not that he would be able to see her even if it wasn’t so dark, not with Bombur lying at her feet.... He frowned, jolted from his circling thoughts. He could actually see the faint outline that from the bulk and snores could only be Bombur, there was _light_ over there. It was dim, too dim to read by, and an odd blue —

Thorin froze for a moment, remembering how Sakura had drawn her sword and laid it on the rock floor next to her bedroll, then whirled to look at his own sword, Orcrist leaning against the wall ... with a faint line of blue light where hilt met scabbard. Springing to his feet and lunging for his sword, he shouted, “Up! Up! Everyone up! Goblins are —”

He broke off his shout when he felt the rock floor lurch underneath him. Even as he could see the faint forms of the others sitting up, looking around, shouting questions, lines of red light ran along the rock underneath them before the floor fell open like a two-panel door and the shouts turned from questioning to shock as everyone slid down and dropped.

Since he had been at the edge of the group against the wall, Thorin ended up on top of the pile — almost. He was just sitting up when Sakura landed on him, knocking him flat again. Even as he suck breath back into his lungs, she was rolling off the pile to her feet, empty sling looped around her neck swinging wide, her blue-glowing sword in one hand and her other hand holding the straps to her pack with her bow and quiver attached, scabbard and sword harness looped over her arm (he didn’t want to think about how that had to feel, with her recently dislocated shoulder — or how it was likely to affect her in a fight). Her eyes were scanning around them then stopped, and her lips pulled back to bare her teeth as she took several quick steps forward.

He followed her gaze and his own lips stretched into a vicious grin. The Goblins had been expecting easy prey, sleep-addled, stunned victims struggling to make sense of what had just happened to them. Instead they’d found at least one that had adjusted instantly, and if she was small she held her glowing blade like she knew what to do with it. The Goblins at the forefront of their charge into the torch-lit, low-ceilinged cavern with empty hands outstretched had abruptly slammed to a halt, and just as abruptly slammed into the floor as the ones following behind knocked them down into their own squirming pile of bodies.

As the Goblins untangled themselves, Thorin looked around for his sword then snatched it up from the ground and whipped it from its scabbard. As he turned back toward the Goblins Dwalin and Balin, who had also been on the edges of the sleeping Company and so on top of the pile, fell in on each side of him with axes and sword at the ready. Thorin glanced at the two, then called out, “Sakura, fall back.”

Their Hobbit risked a glance over her shoulder, then backed up to Dwalin’s other side. Once there, she sheathed her sword long enough to strap on her harness, check her knife in its sheath at her waist, drop her hand to what Kili said was some sort of bullet-thrower in its own case on the opposite side of her waist from her knife. Weapons all in their places, she slung on her backpack with bow and quiver, tucked her sling under the harness strap that crossed her chest, slipped a finger into a pocket for a moment for some reason that totally escaped him, then reached up over her shoulder to again draw her sword. “I’m ready.”

The Goblins were still sorting themselves out, falling back to form a line along the torch-studded wall with weapons now drawn, so Thorin risked a look around. His heart sank — the Goblin’s trap was well placed. The Company had fallen onto a wide, flat stone ledge. Behind them and on one side was solid rock wall, the other side a chasm of unknown depth, the only entrance the tunnel the Goblins had charged out of. The only way out was past the Goblins in front of them, and that would only likely lead into a warren of tunnels with no known destination.

“You nowhere go, drop weapons and keep lives. Living slaves more useful than dead meat.”

At the guttural Westron, Thorin refocused on the Goblins to find three of them walking toward the Company, the one in the middle a half-step ahead and showing a fang-filled grin, presumably the one that had spoken. “The ‘dead meat’ would be much more than Dwarves,” he snarled as memories of the battle outside the mines of Moria rose, the battle where he had lost both grandfather and brother.

But the Goblin’s grin just broadened. “No, won’t. If you no surrender, we close cave, wait month, clear out bodies.” He waved toward the edge of the ledge. “Meat no good, just throw into Underdark for Stalker. Better give weapons, work with backs.”

“Or work on back,” the Goblin on the spokesman’s right side sneered, pointing at Sakura. “That one female, great fun.”

Thorin went slightly light-headed as he paled. But before he could say anything Dwalin snarled and started to step forward, hefting his axes, only to pause when Sakura twisted to grab his wrist. She shook her head, “Don’t worry, they won’t touch me,” she said, then lifted her sword over her shoulder to slide it into its scabbard, slipped on the clasp to hold it in place, stepped away toward the edge of the chasm — just as the leering Goblin threw himself at her, long arms reaching out. Thorin didn’t recognize the technique she used to twist out of the way of the Goblin’s attempt to grab her, knocking an arm aside, then dropping to one knee as he stumbled past her with the edge of an open hand smacking into the back of the Goblin’s knee as a fist hammered — pushed, really — into his backside. The only reason Thorin was able to follow the move at all was his long training with sword and axe, and he never did learn what went wrong. Maybe the size differential threw her off, maybe pain made her careless, maybe she didn’t consider the Goblin’s overly long arms. But even as the Goblin stumbled forward and fell into a roll toward the ledge’s edge, one grasping hand caught the fist that had smacked into his backside and yanked her along as he vanished into the chasm.

“No!” “Sakura!” Fili and Kili rushed to the edge of the chasm and stared down. Other Dwarves followed, though they stayed back from the edge.

Dwalin took a step in that direction himself, before forcing himself back to face the Goblins with axes at the ready. Balin didn’t even twitch, his own eyes still fixed on the Goblin in charge as he switched to Khuzdul and asked, {Anything, lads?}

{No ... no, it’s too dark,} Kili answered in the same language, voice shaking.

{Easy,} Thorin said, {don’t forget her Gifts. If anyone can survive a fall like that, it’s her. She’ll be sneaking around so the Goblins can’t find her, popping up when we least expect it.} _Please, let it be so!_ he silently prayed to whatever Power had brought her to their world. Switching back to Westron, he snarled at the Goblin, “You’ll no more make use of us than you will of her.” He hefted his blue-lit Elvish blade. “Try to take us if you dare — it has been ages since Goblin Cleaver has had the chance to renew its name!”

The Goblin gazed at him for a long moment, then turned and waved his followers toward the tunnel into the mountain, shouting an order in their guttural tongue. As the other Goblins began filing back into the tunnel, he turned back to the Dwarves. “We back two days, see if say same.” He turned and followed the last of his followers out.

Thorin waited a few beats, then slowly walked over to the tunnel and gazed as far down it as the light from Orcrist permitted — not far. But then that blue light slowly dimmed until it was gone entirely, and he sighed with relief. He didn’t believe for a moment that the exit wasn’t being guarded, but no Goblins were close enough to take the Company by surprise. He again switched back to Khuzdul to call out, {Grab the torches, see if we can get out the way we came in.}

The reddish torch light flickered and shifted, there was the mutter of conversation, much of it curses. Finally Gloin — the miner among them — fell into line alongside Thorin. {It’s not happening. If we had proper picks, spikes, more rope ... but —}

He broke off as the crack of breaking rock echoed through the cavern, and both Dwarves turned to stare behind them just as the tall, mannish form of their Wizard dropped down to land heavily where the pile of Dwarves had been.

/\

“— and we were just working on getting back up to the cave when you dropped in,” Thorin finished, wondering if Gandalf was even listening. As soon as the Wizard had heard of Sakura’s fall he had turned away from the king-in-exile to stride over to the edge of the wide ledge, fix a crystal into the odd twist of wood at its tip, then reach out to light up the entire chasm. Even as he looked down, searching eyes intent, he had asked Thorin to continue.

Now Gandalf turned away from the chasm, the light shining from the crystal flickering out, and proved that he had been listening, after all. “Even if Sakura rejoins us and we could get back up to the cave it would do us no good, the path we were following is hopelessly shattered by the Storm Giants’ quarrel. Oh, if Goblins were not behind us we could string rope, make it across the missing section one at a time, but they would certainly attack when we were divided — half the Company would be killed or enslaved. No, we will have to make our way through the Goblin tunnels and out the other side.”

Thorin managed not to wince, so Balin did it for him. “It’ll be a rats’ nest in there. Do ye know the way?”

“From here, no,” Gandalf replied, “but I have been in these tunnels before, from the east. Once I recognize my surroundings I will be able to lead us to the East Gate.”

“They will have left guards, perhaps a heavy door,” Thorin mused. He certainly would have both, for an entrance into his realm for strangers’ use, even if they were captives.

Gandalf looked around at the gathered Dwarves. “I believe we can handle any guards there may be. If there is a door, leave it to me.”

Unable to hold himself back any longer, Kili burst out, “But what about Sakura?!” Beside him, Fili, Nori and Bombur voiced their agreement.

Thorin turned to them, keeping any hint of his own pain off his face. “Sakura will simply have to look after herself.”

Most of the Dwarves erupted in protest, until Dwalin shouted, “Enough!”

In the sudden silence, Balin said, “As much as I hate it, Thorin is right. The Goblins know these tunnels, we don’t. We will be fortunate to be able to escape these tunnels ourselves, if we spend time searching for her we will simply be mousetrapped and slaughtered by the Goblins. We’ll just have to hope that the wee lass is as good as she claims and can catch up to us. Or us to her, she may make her way out before we do. Now everyone sort out the baggage so we can get started. Kili, find Sakura’s bedroll and pack it with yours.”

Thorin’s sister-sons grumbled but reluctantly agreed, and the Company quickly set to, though Thorin paused for one last, long look at the chasm that had swallowed the youngest of the Company.

One more female — practically a child whatever she claimed — to add to the multitude of mothers and children that he had failed to protect since they’d been driven from Erebor.

/oOo\

When Sakura awoke she could barely think through the pounding in her head. _What happened?_ she thought through the pain, trying to push through the thick cotton that seemed to fill her mind. She had ... fought with Thorin, again. She had bedded down between Fili and Kili. Then ... she’d woken up to find herself sliding down along tilting rock, grabbed her sword with one hand and her pack and harness with the other ... she’d bumped up against Bombur, he tried to throw her up and out of whatever was going on.... Then like a dam breaking the memories came flooding in — landing on top of the pile of Dwarves (and almost stabbing Thorin), rolling off in time to confront the rush of Orcs, getting outed as female ... the fall!

_Right, I tried to lighten myself as much as possible, spread myself out for air resistance, slow down enough to grab on to the wall_. It might have worked, if in the dark her hand hadn’t hit the wall too soon. _I really could have used a parasail, if for nothing else than to catch on the wall during the inevitable collision_.

Deciding she was as ready as she’d ever be, she slowly opened her eyes ... or tried to, one turned out to be glued shut. She slid the hand that _wasn’t_ clenched around her sword out from between her body and whatever she’d landed on (soft, or she’d probably be dead). Brushing her fingers along her head where she remembered slamming into rock when she’d spun out of control, she felt the stickiness of blood. Considering the way head wounds bled she must look frightful, but hopefully the bleeding would have naturally cleaned out any grime. A little saliva to unstick her eye, and she carefully lifted her head to look around.

To begin with, there was a faint, blue-greenish light from some sort of fungus coating the rock wall at her back. Not much light, far from enough to read by, but she could make out her surroundings. Including the truly massive mushrooms that had broken her fall, she’d never dreamed that they could grow so large.

She pushed herself up and swung her feet around and couldn’t keep from hissing as fresh pain slashed through her — mostly from her hip this time, it seemed it wasn’t just her head that had taken more than just bruising and scrapes. _Okay, time for emergency procedures_. She closed her eyes and _felt_ every throb and stab of pain, accepted it, then set it to one side and walled it away so it couldn’t touch her.

Sagging with relief as the pain vanished, she examined the bloody rip torn in her leathers over her hip, then what she could see underneath it — not much, but she wasn’t stripping, not down here. But ... the sling around her neck that she had tucked under her weapons harness slipped free to brush across the back of her hand, and she grinned. _Yes, that will do nicely. Not like I’ll be putting my arm back in the sling, anyway_.

Her thigh bound up, she drew her sword, then carefully slipped off the mushrooms that had saved her life and looked around more carefully before just as carefully shuffling along, forcing herself to concentrate — the pain in her head might have been set aside, but the fog filling her mind was still there and all she wanted was to lie down and sleep. _Later for that ..._ much _later I think, if I sleep here I’m too likely to wake up dead. And not just ‘cause I probably have a concussion_.

She was in some kind of grotto, the rock wall behind her, spikes and slabs of rock with more patches of the light-giving fungus scattered about on the floor ahead ... a hint of what might be water glimpsed through some of the gaps between the rock formations — then her eyes caught a glint of gold on the floor in front of her and she paused, then _carefully_ knelt to pick up the gold ring lying there. _Lucky me, I would have missed Bilbo’s ring_ , she thought as she slipped it into her pocket, then rose to her feet and resumed her slow walk. _I suppose I’ll have to find something more secure than wrapping it up in cloth. I suppose I could sew the pocket —_

Something was watching her. She didn’t know who or where, couldn’t say what had warned her, but the same instincts — both hers and her squadmates — that had saved her life several times during the War were screaming at her loud enough to cut through her mental fog. Without turning her head she glanced from side to side ... nothing. She shifted her meandering to walk next to another of the rock outcroppings, and twisted to put her back against it as she looked around at the other outcroppings and the underground lake that had come into view (carefully ... just because she wasn’t feeling any pain, that didn’t mean bouncing her brain around some more was a good idea). Still nothing. Then she felt a patter of dust on face and hands and looked up, straight into a pair of huge eyes faintly glowing with reflected light.

Realizing it had been discovered, the creature swung itself out from the top of the outcropping and landed in front of her. “Bless us and splash us, Precious! That’s a meaty mouthful,” it said in a creaky voice, and stepped forward only to freeze when the tip of Sakura’s sword raised in a two-handed grip dimpled its chest. It slowly looked down, then stepped back as it choked out, “Gollum, gollum.”

Sakura lowered the sword, fighting to keep her arms from visibly shaking. “Back! Stay back,” she warned. “I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to.”

He was perhaps the most bizarre person she had ever seen: dressed only in a dark leather loincloth; perhaps a little taller than her if he stood up straight but he walked hunched over, using his hands half the time as he prowled back and forth in front of her; whipcord thin with every rib visible, worse than she had been when she arrived at Rivendell, but from his easy, fluid way of moving he was _much_ healthier than she’d been; pasty-white skin; huge hands and feet, for his size; bulbous eyes; and bald except for a few dangling strands of hair. “It’s got an Elfish sting,” it muttered as it prowled, “but it’s not an Elfs ... not an Elfs, no, what is it, my Precious? What is it?”

“I’m Sakura Piper.” She winced. She hadn’t _meant_ to say anything, but it seemed the fog in her head was interfering with the filter on her mouth.

“Pipers? What is a Pipers, Precious?”

_In for a penny, in for a pound. Maybe if we get into a conversation it’ll stop thinking of me as food_. With a faint shrug, she replied, “I’m a Hobbit.”

The creature perked up. “Oh, we eats Orcses and fishes, but we haven’t tried Hobbitses before. Is it soft? Is it juicy?” It crept toward her, wide eyes eager.

_I guess not_. She lifted her sword again, still gripping it with both hands to hide her weakness. “Keep your distance! I’ll use my ‘Elfish sting’ if I have to.” She sighed with relief when the creature scuttled away to hide behind another low outcropping. Again lowering the sword, she continued, “I don’t want any trouble, do you understand? Just leave me alone, and I’ll be on my way.”

The creature popped up from behind the outcrop, his broad smile revealing a few sharply pointed teeth interspersed along red gums. “Oh! We knows. We knows safe paths for Hobbitses.” He pointed along the lakeshore. “Safe paths in the dark.” His smile abruptly changed into a snarl and he dropped down out of sight. “Shut up!”

“Um ...” Sakura looked around. “I didn’t say anything.”

The creature’s head popped up again as it snarled, “I wasn’t talking to you.” Instantly its expression softened into a smile. “Yes, we was, Precious, we was.”

_Okay.... When he talks to himself, he gets an answer_. Sakura found herself smiling back. She didn’t think he was any less dangerous now than before, but felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the poor thing, alone in the moss-lit twilight, living on fish and whatever bodies and garbage were tossed down from the Orc caves above, slowly driven mad by loneliness and the never-changing cavern. “What is your name?” she softly asked.

The creature froze. “Our ... our name?” His face scrunched up for a long moment before memory dawned, bringing another broad smile. “We is called Smeagol, Smeagol, we is!”

Giggling a little at Smeagol’s simple pleasure in his own name, she said, “And what about the other you? What’s your name?”

The smile instantly vanished, and he growled. “It mustn’t ask us whats our name is. Gollum, Gollum!”

Well ...” Sakura raised her blade to lay it against her shoulder, then let go with one hand to thoughtfully tap her chin. “If you won’t give me a name, I’ll have to come up with one myself. And I will call you ... Gollum. So, Smeagol and Gollum, I’ll bet Orcs taste nasty! So I’ll make you a deal, if you show me the way out, I’ll get you a bunch of fish to eat before I leave.”

/\

Hours later, the tiny boat Smeagol had shown her (Gollum had been sulking) was full of fish almost to the point of sinking, and she gratefully allowed the Veil to shred and fade. As soon as she released it, she closed her eyes and again accepted her pounding head, the dull throb of every bruise, the deep ache of her shoulder, the sharp stab in her hip every time she shifted position, and set them all aside and walled them away. Fish being almost purely instinct-driven, she had had to focus much too much on the Veil to keep her pain at bay while she had been plucking her companion’s dinner out the lake (and supper, and breakfast, and dinner again, and maybe another round before the fish started going bad). _Though I think I’m getting better, I think it’s easier to think_ , she thought, giggling a little at the multiple ‘thinks’ as she rinsed off her hands in the lake’s ice-cold water (continuing to fight back nausea as the increasing stench of fish wafting around her), then waved to the creature on the shore.

He was almost bouncing in anticipation as he eagerly waved back (Smeagol, obviously), then grabbed the rope he had dug out of his hovel at her request so she could tie it through the small hole she’d bored through the upper part of the boat’s prow. He began to pull, and in no time at all the prow scraped up on the rocky shore, and she gingerly stepped out into water up to her knees and waded ashore (the sword in her hand prominently displayed so Gollum wouldn’t get any ideas). She shifted the straps of the backpack she’d never taken off onto more comfortable — or at least slightly less bruised or strained — parts of her shoulders and said, “That ought to keep you for awhile, much better than nasty Orcs.” — _Or me_. — “So how about showing me the way out, and then you can enjoy your dinner. Smeagol promised.”

“Yes, Smeagol promised,” the creature agreed, then suddenly froze, a look of absolute horror on his face. “Nooooo!” he screamed, ripping a tiny pouch that Sakura hadn’t noticed off his loincloth. He tore open the pouch and examined its inside, then frantically began searching the rocky ground around him. “My Precious is gone! Where is it? Where is it? My Precious is lost!”

Sakura stared for a moment, then asked, “What is it? What does your Precious look like? I’ll help you look.”

“Mustn’t ask, mustn’t ask what my Precious is. Oooooh....”

So it seemed Smeagol trusted her as much as she trusted him, not at all. Still, he made a pitiful figure, rocking in place and moaning where he sat. As gently as she could, she asked, “So where did you last see it?”

The rocking stilled as Smeagol’s face scrunched up again. “Smeagol last uses Precious ... when hunting in upper tunnels! Yes, yes! Smeagol must go look!”

He bounded to his feet, and Sakura hastily waved the hand not gripping her sword. “Woah, wait! Before you rush off you have to tell me how to get out!”

Smeagol paused and looked back at her. “Smeagol can’t tell her, too twisty-turny, must show. The back door is on the way, come, come!”

/\

Smeagol hadn’t been kidding, the way was definitely ‘twisty-turny,’ and as fast as he was moving Sakura was gasping by the time he stopped from the effort of not being left behind. From the wet trickle she felt running down one leg, she suspected the wound in her thigh had torn open again.

He pointed down yet another tunnel, one that actually had a faint hint of sunlight. “Back door is that way, but Orcses are always there.”

“Don’t worry, I can get past any Orcses,” she replied. “Go find your Precious.”

Smeagol stared at her for a long moment. “Will Smeagol ever see Pipers again?” he asked mournfully.

“I don’t know, Smeagol,” Sakura replied. “I’m on a very dangerous quest, I may not survive. But if I do, I’ll be coming back this way in the spring. I’ll come visit you. Gollum, look after Smeagol for me until then, okay?”

Smeagol vanished into Gollum. He glowered at her, but finally nodded. “Gollum protects,” he said, then turned away without another word and scurried up another tunnel leading upward.

Watching him vanish into the darkness, Sakura murmured, “What an odd, sad creature.” Then it was her turn to turn toward her own tunnel, and she set thoughts of him aside as she focused on the Orcs waiting for her, even if they didn’t know it.


	13. Fighting Free

Bilbo gasped for breath as he ran, legs pumping furiously, sweat runnelling down his face and soaking his shirt, the effort making him lightheaded to the point that the pack bouncing on his back was throwing off his balance. He fought to keep his focus on Eradon in front and the bare earth path unwinding ahead of them, ignoring the Rangers loping along on each side. Even through his growing fatigue he felt a distant resentment at how _easy_ they made it look, and he’d lost count of the number of strides he’d run so far (twice as many as his Ranger teachers) so he had no idea how much longer the torture would continue.... Then his foot caught on an upthrust bush root and he stumbled, arms flailing for balance, before Ohtar caught one shoulder and stopped him from face planting into the path.

“Lost count, didn’t you?” Ohtar said as the others stopped and turned back. “We reached the walk break over fifty strides back.” As the others approached, he glanced up at the sun then said to Eradon, “I think Bilbo’s done for the day, and we’re going to have to jog the rest of the way if we’re going to make Bree by nightfall. I’ll carry him.” At Eradon’s nod he knelt so Bilbo could climb onto his back with his arms around the Ranger’s neck, tucked his arms under Bilbo’s quivering legs, and rose to his feet. The Rangers resumed their league-eating, remarkably smooth trot, and Bilbo allowed awareness of everything except the woolen cloak his cheek was pressed against has his breathing slowed.

/\

Hunger had finally driven Bilbo out of the long soak in the continually refreshed hot bath that Eradon had paid for and ordered him into as soon as they’d arrived at the Prancing Pony. Now he looked around the inn’s tap room, taking in everything as he walked around looking for his teachers. No luck so far, but that was because of the ‘trees that walk’ otherwise known as Men, mostly male with a few serving women ... and the boisterous laughter and raucous singing ... and the room smoky and dimly lit by poorly trimmed oil lamps.

The Green Dragon back in Hobbiton wasn’t the only inn that Bilbo had ever visited, but the others had all been inside the Shire. Those inns along the Great East Road that passed through the center of the Shire had a few tables and rooms sized for the Dwarves that passed through on the way to their mines in the Blue Mountains to the east but nothing sized for Men, and even the Dwarf-sized accommodations were sparse — the number of Dwarves passing through was constant, but not high. Here he’d seen a few empty tables sized for Dwarves and more for Hobbits that even had occupants, but the vast majority of the inn’s customer’s were Men of Bree — and while outwardly they seemed much like any gathering of Hobbits relaxing after a day’s hard labor, there was a harsh, hard feel to the sights and sounds of the room that was putting Bilbo on edge. Even beginning to frighten him a little.

Then he caught a familiar voice: “— toughening him up first while waiting for his bow and knife, but he’s determined, working hard. There he is ... Bilbo, over here!”

He looked over at the shout, and sighed in relief at the sight of the three Men that had been running him ragged since practically the day he’d asked for training sitting at a table. And with them was another Man, a leather-clad female ... in fact, it was Ivorwen, the female Ranger that had been with them when he’d delivered Sakura’s letter, the one that had left to tell the Elves of Rivendell that the Company was coming! He dodged around a couple of Men to reach the table and didn’t even mind when Arahad grabbed him under the armpits to lift him up onto a box on a chair like a child. “Did you see Sakura? Is she all right?” he eagerly asked the newcomer.

“I saw her,” she replied as she passed him a plate with an apple, slab of meat and chunk of bread, along with a small mug of ale. “But I’m afraid it was on the way out when I caught up with them on the Great East Road, and I went off the road to pass without being seen; from what I could see at a distance she’s fine. On my way back I swung wide to avoid a meeting, so I never saw her. But that was weeks ago; by now they ought to be over the Misty Mountains, across the Anduin, and on the Old Forest Road through Mirkwood. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

Bilbo’s face fell for a moment, then he forced a smile. “At least she was doing all right when you saw her.” He turned his attention to his plate, ignoring the Rangers’ shop talk in his eagerness to fill the void in his gut before falling into whatever bed the inn had to offer. It had been a long, hard day, and now that Ivorwen had rejoined them it would be a longer day tomorrow — Eradon was eager to head back to their usual patrolling area along the Shire’s south border. Bilbo was _not_ looking forward to the run.

/oOo\

Sakura was getting worried. Between the Veil and Orcs’ preference to avoid sunlight, getting past the pair pretending to guard the entrance to their tunnels that Gollum had led her to had been easy enough. But her head was pounding; her entire body seemed to be one massive, throbbing bruise; thanks to the rip in her thigh by now she was only able to make her way downhill through the pine forest that covered the Misty Mountain’s eastern flank by hobbling along, and even that much only because of a makeshift crutch; she hadn’t seen so much as a rivulet to provide the water she needed to properly cleanse her wounds (at least, as well as possible without a pot to boil water in) and refill the leather water sack she’d emptied to cleanse her wounds as best she could; night was falling and she had to reek of blood — she might as well send up a signal flare for any predators around — and she dreaded the thought of trying to climb a tree. And worst of all, she hadn’t seen or heard any sign of Dwarves or a particular Wizard anywhere. She was _really_ hoping that they hadn’t been forced to return to Rivendell, because if that was the case she was almost certainly a dead woman walking.

 _At least you still have your backpack, and the lembas with it_ , she thought as she reluctantly started to look around for a likely tree. _If you can clean out your thigh enough to prevent gangrene and can find a safe place to hole up, you_ might _have enough to keep from starving while you heal_.

And she had been doing her best to keep her Veil drawn about her, though by now she suspected it was more like her Gauze — she had never tried to go unnoticed this long before.

Then the first howl rang out, and her focus shattered. She spun in place as more howls sounded and barely managed to keep from collapsing as her weight came down on her bad leg. Those howls were much too deep to be wolves, but not for the Wargs that had attacked them at the destroyed farmhouse. She’d been found. _What a perfect end to a perfect day._

Closing her eyes, she again set aside and walled away her pain before tossing aside her crutch and looking around for somewhere to make a last stand — she wasn’t going to allow herself to be taken alive, so doing further damage to herself was the least of her worries.

She had just found a fallen giant of a tree whose now-vertical circle of roots would guard her back admirably when the first baying Wargs came into sight through the trees ... and passed right by at an angle without even noticing she was there. She gaped for a moment, then dropped down completely behind her unintentional hiding place as more baying Wargs flowed down the mountain slope after the first rush, these ones with Orcs on their backs.

Then they were gone, and she cautiously slipped out from behind the roots to stare downhill after them. Where had they come from!? Not from the tunnels she had just left, not as much as Wargs must eat. And they hadn’t been after her at all! But if they weren’t after her ...

 _“You are being hunted.”_ She remembered Gandalf’s words to Thorin, back when the Company had first encountered Orcs, and broke into a run in the wake of the Orc pack.

/\

Sakura tasted blood from her bitten lip as Thorin slammed down hard on the pine needle-covered rock, the huge Warg with its equally huge white Orc that had knocked him flat soaring over him to land between two of the fires scattered around flat outcropping.

It wasn’t hard to guess where all those fires had come from — when she had arrived on the slope above and behind the Orc pack, flaming pine cones had still been arcing out from a tree right on the edge of the outcropping to land among the riderless Wargs. Several were fleeing with their fur aflame — fast-racing torches spreading the flames far and wide, she could already see several trees going up like torches and they would be far from the first.

As she silently shifted around the Orc pack bellowing what she assumed were cheers for the Orc trouncing Thorin and insults hurled at the Dwarves, trying to find a path through the patches of fire, she equally silently cursed Gandalf’s pyromaniac ways. Not that she was being fair, it had been easy enough to see what his plan was — from the unnatural way the fire had been behaving, the Wizard had intended to magically control the flames, both cutting off the tree the Company was occupying and protecting that tree as the spreading forest fire drove away their pursuers.

Unfortunately, that had only lasted until the roots of that tree had given way under the imbalanced weight of the Dwarves, slowly tearing out of the thin soil of the outcropping as the tree tilted, and now the fires were burning out of control as the Dwarves and one Wizard hung out over a lethal drop, trying desperately to scramble through the branches to come to Thorin’s rescue.

Then her attention was yanked away from the Dwarves back to Thorin as the Warg that had knocked him down lunged back to snatch him up in its jaws and shake him like a rag doll before tossing him aside. Sakura barely heard the frantic shouts of the other Dwarves as she searched ... there, a break in the fires on this side of the pack! She could feel her hold on her Veil once again shredding (not that it had been much to begin with, what with the mental effort of holding back her pain) and was moving too fast, anyway, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t like any of the Wargs or their riders were paying attention to anything but the massive white form of their leader ...

... Who was pulling his Warg away from Thorin with a harsh, derisive laugh. He shouted something in Black Speech as he rejoined the rest of his pack, and another Orc dismounted to stride toward the fallen Dwarf, drew his curved sword and placed its edge against Thorin’s neck as the king-in-exile scrabbled desperately for Orcrist just out of reach, lifted the blade — and Sakura slammed into his side, sending him staggering.

The Orc recovered his footing and turned, his eyes widening at the sight of her. He bellowed laughter and strode forward.

Sakura charged to meet him and dodged his downward slash, dropped to one knee, and her blue-glowing sword pierced deep into the brute’s groin. He doubled up, his laughter transformed into a high shriek, and the Bowie knife she’d been gifted by Arwen sliced across his throat. She ignored the fresh blood that splashed across her face as she dodged the collapsing corpse. Yanking her sword free, she turned to face the abruptly silent Orcs and growled, “You will not touch him.”

The Orc leader stared down at her for a long moment, then grinned with a deep, rumbling chuckle. “So the exile that would be king has a protector. You are a tiny little thing for one so fierce.”

She returned his grin, lifting her sword, fighting to hide how heavy it had become. “I may be tiny, but I have a sting, forged by the Elves of Gondolin so that even their children could learn to cleanse the land of your filth.”

The Orc’s chuckle turned into roaring laughter, then he waved his followers forward with a harsh, shouted command.

Sakura braced herself, fighting to stay focused on that massive white form even as her vision went hazy — if she was going to fail Thorin and die in the attempt, she was at least going to teach that Orc a brief but permanent lesson in respect for small things. She took a deep breath and two tottering steps forward on ground that had begun to pitch and yaw like a ship in a storm.

Suddenly the clearing was full of Dwarves bellowing war cries. Dwalin charged past her on one side and Balin on the other to hammer into the approaching Orcs, her knees gave way, and she was unconscious before her face plowed into the ground’s pine needle carpet.

/\

Thorin forced himself to his feet with a shout. He was battered, bruised, exhausted from the long running fight through the Goblin tunnels (he would never know how, even with Gandalf blinding the Goblins that found them and collapsing side tunnels, everyone had made it out alive), his eyes kept trying to lose focus and the world was tilting under his feet thanks to the humiliating beating he’d taken just now in his attempt to buy the Company time at the hands of an Orc claiming to be the son of the Orc Chieftain he’d slain at Moria. But little Sakura needed him!

He ignored the shouts and screams of combat all around him to look around, then dropped to one knee to pick up Orcrist and use that ancient blade to force himself back to his feet. Stumbling over to the tiny too-still form sprawled a few paces away, he again dropped to one knee and gently turned her over onto her backpack and almost collapsed himself as he went lightheaded with relief. She was filthy with dirt and grime and both dried and fresh blood, but at that moment her chest rising with each breath made her the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

A shadow wavering with the dancing light of the burning trees behind it fell across him, and he looked up to find Gandalf with staff in hand and Glamdring drawn, his eyes watching the fighting around them with the occasional glance at the sky. The Wizard asked, “How is she?”

Thorin tried to speak and had to swallow the lump in his throat. “She’s alive,” he replied hoarsely, wiping at wet eyes. “I don’t know more than that, but she’s alive!”

Gandalf’s shoulders slumped in relief, then stiffened. “Oh thank all the Valar, my message reached them,” he murmured, then shouted, “We’re being rescued, let them take you!” He sheathed Glamdring and spread his arms wide, and Thorin gaped as the biggest eagle he had ever seen soared down out of the night sky and snatched Gandalf off the ground, its wings scattering burning embers as they fought to lift both bird and burden up between two trees.

Thorin looked around wildly as more Giant Eagles, their red feathering shimmering in the firelight, dropped out of the sky to snatch up and carry away Dwarves while others grabbed up Orc or Warg to carry high and drop, or beat their wings to blow the fire into enemy faces.

 _Sakura!_ She was so small, would the Eagles even notice ... ?

Hastily sheathing Orcrist, Thorin snatched up the Hobbit’s bloody sword and knife to shove into scabbard and sheath. (Cleaning those out later would be a difficult chore, but needs must.) He adjusted the piece of oak tree on his arm that had given him his battle name before the gates of Moria that he had hollowed out and reinforced to make it into more than an ad hoc emergency lifesaver, then gathered Sakura’s limp form up in his arms and staggered to his feet, and looked to the sky for his own ride out of the fiery hell that surrounded him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Azog/Bolg:** One of the differences between the movies and the book. In the book, Azog was the Chief of the Orcs in Moria, and killed Nain before being killed by Dain at the battle at Moria with the Dwarves. (Yes, that’s the Dain that led the Dwarven army at the Battle of Five Armies.) Bolg was his son, and the commander of the Orc army at the BoFA. Jackson ditched Bolg and switched the fight with Azog to Thorin. I’ve decided to keep Bolg but also keep Jackson’s switch to Thorin, so Thorin killed Azog at the battle at Moria and is now being hunted by Bolg.
> 
>  **Feeding Wargs:** Tolkien was a great scholar, but he wasn’t apparently much of an ecologist. The warm-blooded prey/predator ratio is around 20:1, rather than the cold-blooded 5:1. That means that to feed enough Wargs to replicate the charge of the Rohirrim at the Battle of Pelennor Fields would require herds numbering 100,000 — not happening, not for Orcs. And where would they stash them? So in this universe, Warg-mounted Orcs are small units used for scouting and as shock troops while the vast majority of Orc troops are foot soldiers, just like the movies and unlike The Hobbit.


	14. Seeking Refuge

Thorin had never imagined that he would have so much open space under his feet. He should have been terrified, but he had much more important concerns. There wasn’t anything he could do about the dampness he could feel spreading through one sleeve that he was terrified was the blood of the Hobbit he was clutching to his chest, but he thought he had been the last of the Company snatched away from Orc and fire by the Giant Eagles. Now he was grateful for the nearly full moon as he tried to count the bodies dangling beneath the Eagles soaring ahead of him.

He soon gave it up as a lost cause — losing count, confused by the Eagles crossing each other’s flight, shifting shadows making it difficult to know which were carrying burdens (the only two he was certain were Gandalf’s exaggerated length and the poor Eagle struggling to carry Bombur’s bulk), it was simply impossible. But shortly after the Eagles began gliding down toward the flat top of a massive stone spire jutting up out of level ground, from glinting moonlight surrounded by a river so broad it had to be the Anduin.

One by one, the Eagles broke their glide to drop off their passengers (except for Bombur’s, which simply dropped him as it glided past, the fall actually knocking the Dwarf out for a few minutes). Finally it was Thorin’s turn to take the short drop on bent knees to cushion the shock for his living armful as best he could.

He was instantly mobbed by the rest of the Dwarves (except Bombur): “Sakura!” “You got her!” “Is she all right?” “Is she alive?” “Sakura!” Ignoring the babble, he looked around, eyes narrowed as he tried to pierce the shadows of tattered clouds blowing across the moon — there! The Wizard was at the edge of the spire’s top ... was he _talking_ to one of the Eagles?

Shoving aside his bemusement, Thorin strode through the mob. “Gandalf. Gandalf! Tharkun!”

Gandalf stiffened at the sound of his Dwarvish name. (He knew of it, of course, but rarely heard it used — Dwarves usually spoke Westron in the presence of outsiders (i.e., everyone else), and used the name that went with that language.) Turning toward Thorin, he froze at the sight of the still form in his arms, then hastily turned back to the Eagle. They exchanged a bizarre collection of clicks and chirps, then Gandalf bowed to the Eagle. The Eagle dipped its head, then turned its back on the Company to leap off the edge of the spire, spread its wings as it dropped, and soared away.

Gandalf strode over to Thorin. “How is she?” he demanded.

“That’s what I need to find out. We need some light.”

“No!”

Even as worried as he was, Thorin’s lips twitched with amusement at Nori’s outburst — he seemed to be hearing that word a lot, lately. Of course, most of the time it had come from the Hobbit in his arms.... His amusement vanished. “Explain!” he snarled, turning to the thief.

“The Eagles didn’t carry us _that_ far,” Nori hastily said. “If Gandalf lights us up like he did in the tunnels, everyone for miles around will know that _someone_ is up here. How hard will it be for the Goblins to guess who it is?”

Thorin struggled briefly with himself. Nori was right, curse him, but ... he shifted, and felt his wet sleeve drag on his arm as the unconscious Hobbit moaned. “We’ll have to risk it, without help Sakura may not live to see the dawn.”

Nori sighed, but nodded. “Gandalf, can you dim the light from that glow-stick of yours?”

Gandalf huffed at the insult to his staff, but simply nodded.

“Good,” Thorin said, and looked around. They had come from ... _that_ way, from the southeast. He knelt and gently placed Sakura on the rocky ground. “Dwalin, Oin, see to her. The rest of you, form a half-circle centered there” — pointing in the direction they came — “to block as much of the light as we can.”

While Oin unslung his backpack and began undoing the ties and Gandalf called up a faint but steady light from the crystal he’d set in the root tangle that topped his staff, Dwalin dropped to his knees next to Thorin. “You too,” he said, nodding to the forming line. “And all of you turn your backs, we’re gonna have to strip the lass.”

Thorin felt his cheeks heat up and hastily rose to push himself into the middle of the half-circle, staring out over the moonlit landscape, fruitlessly searching for any sign of movement in the direction from which they’d come as he tried to figure out what was happening behind him. Then Dwalin hissed. “What’s wrong?” Thorin demanded.

“When the lass said she’d been to war she wasn’t just spinning stories,” the warrior replied, “she’s got the scars to prove —”

He broke off, and Thorin had to fight back an urge to scream in frustration. “What?!”

“A bad gash in her leg. Oin, your water and bandages, even if her skull’s broken that head wound can wait till morning. Gandalf, get that light a little closer.”

Finally, just when Thorin was ready to turn around and demand answers, Dwalin said, “That’s as good as we’re getting till there’s better light. Oin, the blanket. Gandalf, you can put out your ‘glow-stick’.”

Thorin waited a few beats longer to give them time to cover Sakura, then whirled and dropped down next to the tiny blanket-covered figure, taking hold of one hand peeking out from under the blanket. “How bad is it?”

“Not good,” Dwalin replied. “Oh, mostly it’s just bruising, nothing’s broken, but she took a hit to the head and gashed her leg when she fell — no blade made _those_ wounds. Good thing you insisted we check; her head had stopped bleeding, but her leg wound might’a bled her out. Now, as long as her leg doesn’t fester she’ll be all right. Dori, we’re going to need your expertise come morning.”

“What!? I’m a tailor, why me?”

 “Exactly because you’re a tailor, that leg is going to need to be sewn up.” Charitably ignoring Dori’s sudden choking fit, he continued, “The lass wasn’t exaggerating the dangers of shutting away her pain.”

Thorin looked up at Dwalin’s moonlit silhouette. “What do you mean?”

“With that gash in her thigh she should ha’ barely been able to walk instead’a running and jumping around like she was, she couldn’t’a been feeling any pain. But she not only got it bleeding again, she tore it even more — she tried to clean it out the first time, but from the grime it wasn’t hard to tell what the rock did and what she did to herself.”

Thorin’s eyes dropped back Sakura. After a few beats he said, “Everyone, get what sleep you can. Kili, I believe it’s your turn for first watch.”

But as the rest of the Company bustled around, unslinging backpacks and getting out bedrolls, Thorin simply sat at the side of the child that had saved his life, holding her tiny hand. There would be no sleep for him that night.

/oOo\

_Several days later:_

Thorin wipe away the sweat beading Sakura’s forehead with a damp rag, fighting to keep the worry off his face. As soon as the sun had risen that morning they’d made their way down to the river and Dwalin had washed her clean before Dori stitched up the wound, but it was definitely festering: discolored and puffy around the stitches, leaking puss, white streaks beginning to radiate away from the gash. And she hadn’t woken up since her collapse, not really; oh, occasionally she had seemed to become aware, eyes open and searching, but they wouldn’t focus on the worried Dwarves gathered around. But mostly she had slept when she wasn’t lost in waking nightmares like now. (It had taken awhile for them to recognize the nightmares for what they were — where in Rivendell her nightmare had had her murmuring and almost thrashing about, here she went absolutely still and quiet in her makeshift stretcher; and every time her moans vanished without a hint of even vague consciousness he silently cursed the ones that had sent her out to be hunted like an animal.)

So Thorin did his best to stay at least outwardly calm and confident, while the rest of the Dwarves were quietly panicking.

The light patter of gravel signaled Nori’s return to the gulley from his scouting mission, and Thorin reluctantly handed the rag to Ori before rising to meet him. “Are the Orcs still out there?” he murmured.

“Yeah, ‘bout half a league off and moving away,” the thief replied, “we’re clear there. But there’s something else out there, only a couple furlongs off.”

Suddenly Gandalf was next to them. “Something else? What did it look like? A huge bear?”

“ ... Yes,” a startled Nori agreed. “You know of that beast?”

“Quit well.” Gandalf turned, staring at the north side of the gulley, frowning as he mumbled times and distances. Thorin realized he was considering the Company’s movements over the past two days as they’d played cat-and-mouse with multiple roving bands of Warg Riders. Finally, Gandalf measured the angle of the sun dropping towards the Misty Mountains. “I had not realized we’d made it this far south,” he murmured, before turning to Thorin. “There is a house nearby where we will be safe and perhaps Sakura can receive better care than we have managed. We will have to quickly and carefully, though, so as not to be noticed either by Orcs or by Bear. It would be best if we abandoned the stretcher.”

Thorin winced at the thought of what that would do to Sakura, but had to reluctantly agree that it was better than being eaten by Wargs. “All right, we can tie her to my back so I can use both hands if needed.”

It was the work of a few minutes for Thorin to shed his backpack and pass it to Gloin, then spread his arms wide as Sakura’s slight form was strapped onto him with her arms tied around his neck. As the stretcher was broken down and the blankets returned to their owners — somewhat the worse for wear — he twisted and turned to make sure he had full range of motion without injuring his passenger. Grudgingly satisfied, he tucked her legs over his arms for more support. “Let’s move.”

/\

A crouching Thorin carefully pushed the bush’s branches aside to gaze across the long stretch of grassland from the edge of the woods that covered the short range of low hills the Company had been using for cover to the log-walled enclosure. “That is the house you spoke of?” he murmured to the Wizard crouched beside him.

“Yes, that is it,” Gandalf replied just as quietly. Then, slightly louder, “Crossing the open stretch will be the most dangerous moment, but once we’re in the house we should be safe. So everyone look around for that Bear Nori —” A thunderous roar echoed down from the hills above them, and Gandalf instantly sprang to his feet, shouting, “Everyone run, now!”

Thorin was right behind him, legs pumping as hard as they could, his gaze fixed on the open gate of the walled enclosure. Sakura moaned into his ear, her head bouncing on his shoulder, and he winced at the thought of what the jarring must be doing to her but didn’t slow down. Dori passed him on one side, Bifur on the other, Gloin ... His eyes widened as the massively fat _Bombur_ of all people barreled past him like he was hardly moving and quickly took the lead.

Then he reached the gate and ignored the pile-up of Dwarves ahead at the large double-doors of the house inside, instead whirling to look behind him.

Balin and Dwalin were right behind him, and Balin grabbed his arm. “You have Sakura, get the door! I’ll get the stragglers!”

Thorin instantly nodded and started to turn, just as the largest bear he had ever imagined burst out of the woods. He stared for a moment in stunned shock — it had to be twice as massive as any bear he’d ever seen! — then whirled and ran for the pile-up hammering at the door, shouting, “Out of the way! Out of the way!” The crowd parted, and he scanned the door as he ran. _No lock there has to be a latch where is it where is it there!_ He turned as he smashed shoulder first into the doors to make sure that no part of Sakura was pinned against the doors, yanked on the latch as he rebounded, then threw himself forward to slam through the doors, sending the bar on the opposite side spinning away.

Even as he staggered into house, he turned to count those piling in behind him. _One, two, three, five, seven, eight, nine_ —

He looked past Dwalin, Balin and Gandalf bringing up the rear, and his eyes widened at the sheer _speed_ of the huge black beast bearing down on them. _Too close!_ He pushed through the mob to one of the doors. “Gloin, get the other door! Fili, Kili, grab the bar!”

Gloin glanced back through the doors, blanched, and rushed to the other door. “Do what he says, lads, hurry!”

The brothers grabbed the bar and hurried toward the doors just as Dwalin, Balin and Gandalf rushed through, barreling into the pair and knocking them backwards. Thorin and Gloin slammed the doors shut, his hollowed oak-log shield thudding into the door as he braced himself for what good it was going to do, the Bear’s gaping jaws had seemed to fill the view outside as the doors closed, there was no way all the Dwarves together, much less he and Gloin alone, could hold against that hurtling mass —

Then Dwalin was there, dropping the thick bar into its braces on the inside of the doors an instant before the house seemed to shake from the beast’s impact.

Thorin dropped to his knees and slumped against the door in sheer relief, sucking in deep breath after deep breath. That had been even worse than the nightmare run through the Goblin tunnels!

“Wh-wh-wh-what was that th-thing?” Bofur demanded. “That was too big to be a bear!”

“That was our host,” Gandalf replied. “He is Beorn, a Skinchanger — sometimes a Man, sometimes a Bear. The Bear is dangerous, but the Man can be reasoned with. But you will need to be on your best behavior, he is not overly fond of Dwarves.”

The entire company turned to stare at him, and he glanced around with an amused smile, only for the amusement to vanish as he abruptly focused on Thorin. No, not Thorin.... “Sakura!”

At the Wizard’s shout the heads of the rest of the Company whipped around toward Thorin and his burden, and Dwalin yanked his knife out of its sheath. “Your side’s bloodsoaked, her stitches must ha’ ripped.” He cut through the cords binding Sakura to Thorin’s back, and he and Kili eased her down.

Thorin turned to look, and his heart leaped into his throat at the sight of Sakura’s gray, tight face covered with a sheen of sweat. _I should have been more careful!_ He dropped to one knee beside her.

“The stitches tore,” Dwalin reported. He glanced up at the dim light coming through the windows, tinged red with the sunset. “Best to wait ‘til the morning to restitch them, maybe longer — drain and clean out the wound and wait ‘til she’s beat the infection to restitch it.”

Balin placed a hand on his king’s shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. “Don’t blame yourself. T’was the run to the house that did it, and it would have been the same for any of us. We barely made it as it was.”

Thorin nodded but didn’t reply, only gently stroked the child’s flame-red hair before rising and turning to Gloin for his pack. He’d get changed out of his bloody clothes, then set up his bedroll next to their burglar for the night with his oak-log shield for a pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm again borrowing from Araceil and the movie, though there'll be more divergence in the next chapter when Beorn shows up.
> 
> I actually have over half of the next chapter of _Yrth-bound_ written, but came to a tough spot with the plot bunny for this chapter and the next constantly knocking on my mind's door. So here's this with the next chapter quick to follow (already half-written), then back to _Yrth-bound_ and on to _The Raven_.
> 
> Just as a heads up, my summer vacation will be at the end of this month so whatever I'm writing then will be a week late.


	15. Alligator Poem

The windows were brightening with the dawn when the doors swung open and the largest Man Thorin had ever seen strode in. The Man was dressed in leather trousers and a sleeveless leather vest, with iron shackles dangling a bit of chain on each wrist that _had_ to be deliberate accessories — there was no way that the Bear’s paws could fit them. If he _was_ a Man, with his broad, flat nose and the way his gray hair flared out around his gaunt face to more resemble a mane, the long hanging sideburns extending halfway along his jaw Thorin instantly had his doubts.

The Man Thorin assumed to be Beorn looked around at the ‘guests’ scattered about the house’s single room. Looking around, he growled, “And what are _Dwarves_ doing in my home?”

Thorin rose from where he had been sitting beside Sakura, occasionally wiping her brow with a damp rag — he didn’t know how but she had somehow sensed they were safe, and woke him in the middle of the night when she grew restless from her fever-dreams — and demanded, “Can you help her?”

Beorn strode over and gazed down, his eyes widening. “And what are you doing with a Holbytla in your company?”

“Can. You. Help. Her.”

Glancing from Sakura to Thorin, Beorn’s eyes softened. He knelt by the sick Hobbit and leaned down to smell her breath, then turned back her blanket and unwrapped her thigh to sniff at the open wound, sniff then press his tongue to the blood-and-puss-stained bandage. Squatting back on his heels, he frowned thoughtfully. “Is this the only bandage used to bind your Holbytla’s wound?” he asked.

Thanks to the disturbance the others had been wakening, and now Oin scrambled for his backpack. He pulled out the bloody strip of cloth that Sakura had first used for her sling, that they’d found wrapped around her leg that first night on the spike of rock Gandalf had told them was named the Carrock, and handed it to the giant Man with a bobbed bow.

Beorn accepted it and sniffed at it, then pressed his tongue against it. “Kelador,” he declared. At their blank looks he added, “Giant mushrooms that grow in caverns under the mountains, nasty if they come against any open wounds, or even scrapes. Did you run across any during your travels?”

Gandalf, rising from his bedroll and walking over to join Thorin and Beorn, replied, “No, but she was separated from us for a time. She must have encountered them then. Can you help her?”

“Aye, I have an herbal wash for the wound, and she’ll need to be stripped and all her clothes washed. But her wound’s festered for days, she will have to be strong to survive.”

“None stronger,” Gandalf replied, “and for this I can think of no better place for her outside of the Shire than here.”

Beorn looked at him oddly for a moment, then rose to his feet. “I’ll get what I need. Move her onto a blanket out by the well.”

/\

In the end Fili had to sharpen one of his knives to a much finer edge than was usually needed — or even good for the blade, it was essentially ruined for normal use — and scraped away as much of the putrescent flesh as possible while Dwalin and Thorin held the Hobbit still. Then once the fresh bleeding was finally stopped the wound was cleansed with Beorn’s herbal wash.

As most of the Company left a greenish-pale Dori to restitch the wound, Gandalf sought out Beorn. “Master Bear,” he hesitantly said. (While the two were known to each other, their relationship was not so deep that the Wizard expected him to casually accept being descended upon by almost a score of refugees — and Dwarves, at that.) When the massive skinchanger grunt acknowledgment, Gandalf asked the question that he had set aside for Sakura’s need. “You referred to her as a Holbytla. Isn’t that simply the riverfolk name for water spirits, a memory from a time centuries gone?”

Beorn shrugged as they walked into his home, headed for the larder. “I know nothing of ancient memories, but the Holbytla are real enough whatever the riverfolk may say. They live hidden in the marshes of Gladden Fields.”

Gandalf stared at him for a long moment, reflexively accepting a massive cloth-wrapped wheel of cheese, before shaking his head. “I should have realized,” he mused as he turned for the large room’s single massive table. “Sakura isn’t from Gladden Field, you see. At one time her people dug their holes in the banks of the Anduin. When the Shadow fell on Mirkwood and Goblins multiplied in the mountains, they migrated over those mountains to a new home far in the West. It never occurred to me to wonder where else they might have migrated, but of course there would be those too stubborn to leave, that would instead withdraw into local, safer lands. I warrant not all the Goblins found occasionally floating dead in the marsh waters are because of the interclan squabbling of those that live at its center. And here I thought that the blessing that lies on Gladden Field was because of the long ago presence of Elves ... how stupid of me.”

He placed the wheel of cheese on the table. As Beorn thunked down his own burden of smoked venison, Gandalf asked, “But if the riverfolk believe them to be water spirits or children’s stories, how is it you know differently? Gladden Field is far south of the lands you usually wander.”

Beorn shrugged again. “At times the more adventurous of the Holbytla hide themselves on the riverfolks’ barges, ride the River. One of them took sick and abandoned his barge so he wouldn’t be found. I found him instead, and as he recovered we learned enough of each other’s tongues to talk.”

“Wonderful!” Gandalf’s joy so filled his voice that Beorn glanced over sharply. “Once my current affairs are settled you will have to tell me all you learned! Do you have anything to drink besides the well?” His joy vanished, and he shot a worried look toward that well and the Hobbit lying beside it. “I doubt the Dwarves will want anything to do with _that_ water for a time, not with how much of Sakura’s blood is on the ground.”

/\

It was two more nights before Sakura’s fever broke, badly scaring an exhausted Thorin that morning before he realized that her now-cool skin wasn’t the cold of dead flesh, and that her chest still rose and fell with her breathing even though she was finally lying still.

As he sat and held her hand with a gentle grip that shook with relief, Balin sat up and pushed aside his own bedroll. Realizing what had finally happened, he knelt next to Sakura. Gently stroking her ruby-red, sweat-soaked hair, he finally asked, “Does she still remind you of Arlais?”

Thorin shook his head. “No. As much as I love my niece and however strong her own will, she would never have survived the mountains — much less come screaming out of the night to save my life!” he added with a wry smile.

Balin returned the smile as chuckles from other awakening Dwarves sounded around them. “Good,” the councilor replied, “you may survive each other’s company, yet!” As the chuckles turned to soft laughter, he continued, “Now why don’t you return t‘your bedroll. You’ve hardly slept a wink these past few days, you need it almost as much as she does.”

“One moment.” Thorin turned to find Gandalf crouching down at Sakura’s other side. The Wizard examined Sakura for himself — feeling her forehead, then turning back her blanket enough to check the healthy-pink flesh around her newly-forming latest scar — and for a moment sagged with relief at what he found before straightening. “Yes, she will be fine, and fully healed in a few weeks.” He paused for a moment, looking consideringly at Thorin, then continued, “And now that Sakura is out of danger I fear I need to leave you. I have business to the south, and I am already late.”

“What!” The outburst from numerous Dwarves’ throats was promptly glared down by their King. He checked that Sakura was undisturbed, then coldly demanded, “Explain.”

“I am afraid I cannot. It does not concern you.”

“You would abandon us? Abandon _her?_ ” Thorin ground out, fighting to keep his voice below a roar, but Gandalf only smiled whimsically as he glanced down again at the tiny form between them.

“Sakura will understand best of all of you,” he replied. “When she awakes, tell her that it concerns what she overheard when she snuck up on me and Radagast.”

Thorin’s gaze sharpened at the mention of that moment right before the Wargs had first found them, and the Hobbit’s whimsical play with her later-revealed Veil. But then his thoughts veered to that night in Hobbiton where they had first met Sakura, and how at her urging Gandalf had expressed his own fears of a rising Evil allied with the Dragon. If this southern business was more important than that ... !

“Will we see you again before the Quest is finished?” he finally asked.

“I hope so,” Gandalf replied. “I will try, but I can make no promises. But you will have Sakura with you, and I believe she has proven her worth.”

“Aye, that she has,” Thorin agreed. “Very well, fare you well on your own Quest.”

“Thank you.” Gandalf rose and as he asked Beorn for the loan of one of his ponies, Thorin gave in to Balin’s urging to return to his bedroll next to their burglar. He was asleep before Gandalf was finished packing.

/\

The next time he awoke, he found himself staring into half-lidded lapis lazuli eyes a few feet away. “You’re awake!” he exclaimed, shoving aside his blanket and sitting up.

“M’hmmm. How long?” Sakura husked, and began to cough. Not surprising, during her few semi-lucid moments over the past several days they had only been able to get her to swallow some broth and a draught that Oin prepared.

Thorin hastily helped her sit up and braced her upright as he held a leather water bottle up to her lips. She sipped, then with her throat now moistened eagerly drank until the bottle was empty. Thorin could feel her slumping against him, and eased her back down.

“How long?” she murmured again.

“It is the fifth day since escaping the Goblin tunnels,” he said.

Her eyelids began to ease down before she forced them open again. “Ever’body?”

“Everyone else is fine, Fortune was much kinder to us than you.”

“Good.” Her lips twitched with what could charitably be called a smile. “Me, too ... landed on mushrooms ... m’life.” She shifted, and hissed. “How bad?”

“Nothing you don’t already know about. Gandalf said you should be up in a few weeks.”

“Weeks.” Her eyelids were easing shut again. “More bed, ‘n me w’out ... library.”

Thorin started at Balin’s voice from behind him. “So we will have to be your library.” His counselor moved around to Sakura’s other side and crouched down next to her to take her hand. He continued, “I’m sure between all of us we should be able to keep you entertained.”

She smiled faintly. “ ... like that.” And she was asleep.

Thorin felt his eyes prickle and forced the tears back — he was the king, he could _not_ show such deep emotions in public. But he could smile, and did as he tucked Sakura’s blanket about her.

Their child-like Hobbit with the heart of a Champion was going to be all right.

He sat next to her and began to braid her hair, the warrior’s braid that would frame her smooth face. Perhaps it would even help her feel more like an adult to the rest of the Company.

/oOo\

Sakura made her way across the small hollow less than a furlong distant from Beorn’s home, delighting in the cool touch of wild grass damp with dew on her bare feet. Other than the occasional glance around for any Goblins springing out of empty air, her eyes were fixed on the ground watching for any leavings from their host’s grazing ponies and looking for a relatively flat, rock-free piece of ground. And enjoying the scattering of wildflowers in their blues and yellows and reds.

Finally finding a spot, she flicked away the few stones on her little plot, straightened and glanced around one more time. Satisfied, she took a deep breath of the cool, clean early morning air and ran her hands through her hair, smiling at the feel of her warrior’s braid — hadn’t _that_ been gratifying when its significance had been explained to her, especially when she learned who had first braided it. _Apology accepted_ , she thought as she drew her sword and stuck it upright in the ground, then unbuckled the harness strapping her sword to her back and set it down next to her sword. on a whim, she picked one of the blue flowers and tucked it behind her ear.

The past weeks had been long and frustrating, once she had recovered enough to do more than eat, sleep, and be helped to Beorn’s privy. Not that the Dwarves hadn’t done their best to stave off boredom, she suspected that along with the history, hopes and dreams of her Companions, she now knew more about the Dwarven way of life than all but a handful of outsiders.

She’d even reciprocated as best she could, once Balin overcame her protests that her own people were on an entirely different world by pointing out that the Dwarves did know one of her people — her. Not that she’d been able to tell of much, thanks to her own youth and the War, so she’d mostly stuck to speaking of her family’s ways and her childhood growing up with parents of two very different cultures.

But she thought she was _finally_ ready so she’d managed to evade her fourteen mother hens — even the massive Shapechanger had coddled her in his own gruff way — and now she stretched, rotated her arms and shoulders, patted her leathers where a pocket was sewn shut with her wedding ring inside, then kneaded her leg where her freshly cleaned and repaired leathers covered her newest scar (not her ugliest, that she thought was the one that ran diagonally across her back from shoulder to hip, but certainly one that had come as close to killing her as any). Satisfied, she began to dance.

Once, after a particularly brutal mission when she hadn’t been able to find anyone willing to take her to bed that she wanted to take her there, she had taken her mp3 player to an empty meeting room. She’d plugged it into the room’s sound system, put an instrumental version of “Driver’s Seat” (performed by an orchestra, no less) on infinite loop, and lost herself in the dance until she’d collapsed, sweat-soaked, numb and shaking, into the arms of friends she hadn’t even realized had found her to be carried away to be bathed and tucked into bed.

That day had seared every drum and trumpet of that song into her memory and now she called it up her feet pounding the grass to the relentless beat. It wasn’t safe to lose herself in the music — not out in the open alone — so she opened herself up to the world, and like flipping a switch she was abruptly hyper-aware of all around her: the soft breeze caressing her skin, the rising sun warming the cool morning air, leaves blowing past, the songbirds’ chorus, several of the unbelievably massive bumblebees from Beorn’s hive buzzing around her — she threw her arms wide and lifted her face to the clear blue sky as she spun in place, and laughed for the sheer joy of being alive.

Finally, when the muscles of her legs began to protest, she let her mind’s music fade away and her arms drop as she slowed to a stop. She grinned up at the audience — Beorn, Balin and Dwalin — that she’d vaguely noticed gather on the hollow’s rim and announced, “I feel great!”

As she walked over to grab her sword out of the ground and sweep up the harness, she glanced up at Beorn’s massive form. “Your land knows it is loved, somehow, I can feel it — it almost feels like home, back in the Shire.”

She smiled at Beorn’s appreciative rumble as she climbed the side of the hollow to join them. “Let’s go get breakfast.”

As Balin fell in on one side and Dwalin on the other, the counselor nodded toward her sword and asked, “Have you thought of a name yet? It certainly deserves one — not many swords are first blooded in the defense of a king.”

“Name?” Sakura looked blank for a moment, until memory dawned. “Oh, right! I said I’d do that, that first night in Rivendell, didn’t I?” She frowned thoughtfully, then smiled at a somewhat later memory ... several of them, actually: with Smeagol under the mountain (though that one was a little blurry and disjointed), and standing between Thorin and the Goblin leader in a burning hell. “Yes, I have one. It’s a tiny, common name so it’s perfect for me — because I may be tiny, but I have a Sting!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Sting now has its name. And yes, I believe that in the movie Gollum actually did refer to Bilbo's "elvish sting" (it's too late and I'm too tired to actually check).
> 
> And I looked to _The One Ring_ RPG for the Wild Hobbits (though in that game the Wild Hobbits have been driven from Gladden Field by the Orcs and Goblins and are now secretly residing along the Anduin again. "Holbytla" is actually the name given them by the Rohirrim, who would have known of them back when they lived at the headwaters of the Anduin, before their migration to Rohan. Though the Rohirrim and most of the Hobbits are long gone from the Anduin, the name yet remains among the Northmen that stayed behind and the riverfolk that trade with them even though the Holbytla themselves have become creatures of legend.
> 
> The song Sakura remembers actually exists, it's the Ray Hamilton Orchestra's cover of "Driver's Seat" on their album "Best of the 90's 1991 Part 2."
> 
> The chapter title comes from a poem by Mary Oliver:
> 
> **Alligator Poem**  
>  I knelt down  
> at the edge of the water,  
> and if the white birds standing  
> in the tops of the trees whistled any warning  
> I didn’t understand,  
> I drank up to the very moment it came  
> crashing toward me,  
> its tail flailing  
> like a bundle of swords,  
> slashing the grass,  
> and the inside of its cradle-shaped mouth  
> gaping,  
> and rimmed with teeth—  
> and that’s how I almost died  
> of foolishness  
> in beautiful Florida.  
> But I didn’t.  
> I leaped aside, and fell,  
> and it streamed past me, crushing everything in its path  
> as it swept down to the water  
> and threw itself in,  
> and, in the end,  
> this isn’t a poem about foolishness  
> but about how I rose from the ground  
> and saw the world as if for the second time,  
> the way it really is.  
> The water, that circle of shattered glass,  
> healed itself with a slow whisper  
> and lay back  
> with the back-lit light of polished steel,  
> and the birds, in the endless waterfalls of the trees,  
> shook open the snowy pleats of their wings, and drifted away,  
> while, for a keepsake, and to steady myself,  
> I reached out,  
> I picked the wild flowers from the grass around me—  
> blue stars  
> and blood-red trumpets  
> on long green stems—  
> for hours in my trembling hands they glittered  
> like fire.


	16. Into the Green

Arwen strode through the airy halls of Rivendell in search of her prey, ignoring the shocked looks she received from everyone she passed — they couldn’t be more aghast than her servants had been when she had ‘requested’ the accoutrements she was currently wearing, but her father had been several days gone on his journey to Lothlorien when she’d ‘asked’ and was even farther away now so she didn’t care who saw or what they thought. There was no one left that could command her otherwise and he would not return for months, perhaps even a year — an eye blink in the lifetime of an Elf, but _much_ too late to stop her.

“So where would they be?” she muttered to herself as she walked. “They’re not in the baths, not at the kitchens, not at the training hall or range ... right.” She sped up into a trot, her cloak flapping in the breeze. The window she needed was ... there! A short hop to the window ledge, a longer hop over the aromatic flower bush just outside the window to the bordering walkway (carefully, to compensate for her unaccustomed burdens), then she broke into a run.

She’d guessed right, her two brothers were at the stables saddling up for yet another Orc hunt — Elladan and Elrohir’s favorite occupation for the 432 years since their mother had been captured and brutally raped and tortured by the foul creatures before her sons had been able to rescue her. They had been less than happy to accompany Arwen back from Lorien on her quest to meet the Man turned Hobbit since that had taken them away from prime hunting grounds around Dol Guldur (not that they would have allowed anyone else to take responsibility for her safety), but their father’s encounter with the Warg pack pursuing Gandalf’s Company had given them hope for sport close to home. So far their hopes had not been realized, but it had only been a few weeks — she figured it would take at least another month before they gave up their almost-daily hunts. Or would have, if not for her.

She strode through the open door into the open space in front of the stalls for tending sick or injured horses. The stablemaster glanced toward her from where he was discussing something with another Elf she didn’t recognize, and his jaw dropped at the sight of her. The sudden silence pulled Elladan’s attention away from the saddle he was strapping onto his favorite mount. He glanced up and shouted, “Arwen, what are you _wearing?_ ” That got _Elrohir_ ’s attention, and he looked over from the bit he was just about to put in his own favorite mount’s mouth and froze.

Arwen smiled whimsically as she grabbed the edges of her cloak with both hands and spread it wide. “It hasn’t been so long since our journey from Lorien that you should have forgotten my travelling leathers _already_ ,” she replied.

Elladan growled, “That isn’t it, and you know it!” He handed his horse’s reins to the stablemaster and strode toward her.

“Oh, you mean this?” Arwen asked, placing a hand atop the hilt of the sword belted at her waist. “Or is it the bow and quiver?”

“Both! What are you playing at?”

Arwen’s whimsy vanished. “This is no game. Mithrandir openly pushing the Dwarves to move against Smaug? Orcs on the outskirts of Imladris hunting them? Father rushing off to Lothlorien after a late night meeting with Grandmother and Mithrandir? A Man pulled into the Shire and transformed into a Half — into a Hobbit, perhaps by Yavanna herself? Dark times are coming.”

The twins exchanged glances. “That is likely, yes,” Elladan reluctantly conceded, “but you are safe enough here in Imladris, or with Grandmother. And you have never shown an interest in the ways of war before.”

“No, I haven’t,” Arwen agreed. “But am I truly safe here? If the Enemy rises again, can even Lothlorien and Imladris stand against him? I will not take ship over the Sea, and I will not suffer the same fate as Mother. Nor will I hide under my bed while others fight in my defense.

“And that is why the two of you are going to train me.”

Elladan swelled with indignation, until Elrohir lightly touched his arm and murmured, “I believe we should continue this elsewhere. Word of this will spread fast enough as it is, let us not make it worse.”

Elladan glanced at the stablemaster and the Elf he had been conversing with, and deflated — they were staring at the tableau with fascinated eyes. “Very well,” Elladan growled, then raised his voice to say, “Inthalras, will you see to our horses?”

The stablemaster exchanged a disappointed glance with the other Elf, then shrugged. “Yes, this once — you have more important concerns.”

Elladan nodded his thanks, then turned to stalk out of the stables, Elrohir and Arwen right behind him.

Arwen fought to hide a pleased smile. She was facing a _long_ argument, but she already knew how it would end. Elladan would shout and bluster and think up argument after argument while Elrohir would listen quietly and interject the occasional thought as it occurred to him (for both sides of the ‘discussion’, as often as not). But in the end, the two would agree — they had never been able to deny their little sister anything she truly wanted before, and they wouldn’t now.

Making certain that neither brother could see her face at the moment, she let loose her grin. Sakura was going to be _so_ surprised when she returned.

/oOo\

Sakura sighed with pure contentment as she pushed away the empty bowl in front of her on the table. The broth she’d eaten during much of her convalescence hadn’t been exactly filling, and while lembas both was filling and wasn’t as bad as MREs could be and cram always was, it was getting a little old. The large bowl of breakfast mash she had just polished off had definitely hit the spot.

“Now that our burglar is done, we need to discuss how we go on from here,” Thorin said, sending Sakura a stony glance from where he sat at one end of Beorn’s long table (Balin beside him, of course). He had _not_ been happy about her early morning excursion out of sight of the enclosure without escorts. While he hadn’t said anything to her yet, she suspected that he was simply waiting to vent his displeasure in private. And she had a sinking suspicion that _this_ time, she deserved it — in retrospect, going off alone like that had been a spectacularly stupid thing to do.

Beorn ‘hmm’ed deep in his throat as he tilted a large pitcher to pour frothy milk into Gloin’s goblet. “I don’t much like Dwarves,” he rumbled, “but you aren’t like those Dwarves I’ve met before.” He glanced toward Sakura, then looked over at Thorin. “And after what they did to my family, I like Goblins even less. What do you need?”

Balin didn’t react, of course, and Thorin proved that for all his usual blunt manners he had _some_ diplomatic training when he didn’t so much as twitch. Their self control was made pointless, though, by the sighs of relief from practically all the _other_ Dwarves. Thorin frowned quellingly at the rest of the party, then replied, “Our thanks. We need enough provisions to see us to the other side of Mirkwood, then north to Laketown. We can reprovision there before continuing on to Erebor.”

“You will never reach the eastern edge of Mirkwood,,” Beorn said as he finish filling Oin’s goblet and shifted to Bifur’s. “There are Goblins watching us, keeping their distance enough that even I can’t catch them. Even if you make it through to the Old Forest Road — which you will since I will be with you, Goblins have learned to avoid me — they will run you down within the forest.”

“We must try, and it is the only way,” Thorin replied simply.

Beorn ‘hmmm’ed again, and glanced at Sakura out of the corner of one eye before stepping away from the table to refill the pitcher. “There is another way,” he said when he returned, as he began filling Bofur’s goblet. “A path to the north, one that the Goblins cannot enter. But that does not mean that it is without dangers of its own, it was created by the Elves of Mirkwood and they are a solitary people, unwelcoming of strangers — they would not be pleased to find you making use of their path. But they rarely travel outside their own lands, so as long as you leave the path before reaching their borders you are unlikely to encounter them.” Finishing filling Bombur’s tankard, he started with Dwalin’s.

Thorin was next in line, and Sakura wondered if the king-in-exile was offended that he hadn’t been first as proper protocol required. But if Beorn knew that protocol he obviously didn’t care, having started with the nearest Dwarf and worked his way along the table. If Thorin _was_ offended he was hiding it well. Apparently, he really was capable of some measure of diplomacy, so long as Elves weren’t involved. (She was going to have to ask Balin for the details about that some time, maybe avoid stepping on a landmine — she suspected her and Thorin’s relationship was going to require a little work.) Now, Thorin simply nodded. “My thanks, for both the provisions and the advice. If possible, we will leave early in the morning.”

He didn’t add _We’ve been here long enough_ , but Sakura heard it anyway and blushed.

/oOo\

Sakura rode over the crest of the hill and reined in her pony at the sight of Mirkwood. The Company had ridden north from Beorn’s home, the huge man loping along beside them (the massive manacles he had worn around his wrists made conspicuous by their absence), with her on the east flank and Kili to the west with bows strung and arrows nocked, Dwalin on point and Gloin bringing up the rear. The Company had stayed well away from Mirkwood, both to avoid ambushes from its shadows and to convince any watchers that they’d decided to ride around its northern edge, but late in the evening had turned east at Beorn’s word (making Sakura point) to ride toward the western entrance to the Elvish path. Now Sakura had caught her first glimpse of the massive forest, and she did not like it at all.

Thorin rode up beside here. “Is something wrong, Little One?”

Sakura glared at him, but her lips twitched at the hint of humor she thought she could see in the Dwarf’s eyes. Maintaining their relationship might take some work (and the dressing down he’d delivered had been no fun at all, made worse by the fact that _this_ time she actually had to apologize), but it seemed they were _finally_ off to a good start.

Returning her attention forward, she shivered. “There is something wrong with that forest.”

Balin rode up on her other side. “It is named Mirkwood for a reason, lass,” he said, frowning thoughtfully. “You can actually feel the darkness that haunts it?”

“Yes. It feels ... sick.”

Unnoticed, the two Dwarves exchanged worried glances over her head. “Will this be a problem?” Thorin carefully asked. “We can keep heading north, travel across the northern edge —”

“No!” Sakura cut him off, and Thorin had to suppress a chuckle. “No, we would be run down as certainly as on the Old Forest Road. I’ll deal, come on.” Without waiting for a response, she kicked her pony into motion again toward the forest, Thorin and Balin right behind her and the rest following.

As they rode closer Sakura’s searching gaze finally found the opening in the brush along the forest edge, only recognizing that a pair of trees were actually pillars when she realized that they lacked the branches of the other trees shifting slightly in the breeze. She didn’t think the Elves had been deliberately trying to hide the entrance, just being their usual ‘at one with nature’ selves, but the effect had been much the same.

But deliberate or accidental, it hadn’t been good enough to keep the Orcs from learning of its location, and Sakura felt nauseous as she stared at the crude lettering scrawled in red on the two pillars — something about that writing just felt _wrong_.

_Or maybe it isn’t the writing_. She grimaced at the thought, if that was the case she was in for a _very_ unpleasant time during the weeks it would take to make their way through Mirkwood. Could she even eat? It was still a little early for her next meal, but as the rest of the Company caught up she pulled a leaf-wrapped lembas out of her pocket and forced herself to take several bites. Her nausea didn’t get worse and the mouthfuls she’d choked down _stayed_ down, so that was something, at least.

/\

Bolg carefully reined his Warg a few feet lower on the side of the hill, so that only his head rose about the hill’s crest. The massive white Orc snarled as he watched the Bear lope away south with his ponies trotting along with him, even as the last of the Dwarves the Orcs had been hunting vanished into the forest on the Leaf Eaters’ path ... the path that no Orc could set foot on.

It had seemed so simple when word had spread that Thorin had made himself a juicy target, wandering the Wilds alone or with only a handful of companions — Bolg only had to lead a Warg Rider pack out of Moria in their hunt along the eastern slope of the Misty Mountains, and when that pack ran the Dwarves to ground (assuming the Warg Riders out of Gundabad didn’t intercept them on the west side) then bask in the reflected glory of the death of the Dwarf that killed his father — and so proving his superiority over both.

It hadn’t worked out that way. He hadn’t anticipated the presence of a Wizard, or the Great Eagles getting involved. And he _definitely_ hadn’t anticipated that they would seek refuge with the Bear, or that that murderous recluse would provide them so much aid. Now he had only two choices: to head north and east across the north edge of Mirkwood and hope to intercept the Dwarves short of the Man settlement on the lake, or abandon the hunt and return to Moria. Both were dangerous; pursuing the Dwarves would take him away from Moria for months so he’d almost certainly have to fight a usurper on his return to reassert control over the Moria tribes, while giving up the pursuit would make him look weak and so encourage more challengers —

A shout from the foot of the hill distracted him from his unhappy thoughts, and he turned his snarl down toward his pack — he’d ordered silence, they did _not_ want to draw the Bear’s attention! Then his snarl vanished at the sight of a new Orc, one he didn’t recognize. Most likely a messenger — and from the quality of the various mismatched pieces of armor he wore, not a warrior to be taken lightly.

Bolg reined his Warg down the hill, kicking it in the jaw when it growled. Pulling the Warg up short beside the new Orc, he demanded, “What is it?”

“Bolg, son of Azog, you are commanded by the Eye to return to Moria and lead your army to Dol Guldur. You will take command of the Orcs gathered there and march against the Man town below Lonely Mountain, then turn west against the Leaf Eaters.”

Bolg turned to look at the hill and the tops of the leading edge of the Mirkwood visible above the crest, forcing his grin into a snarl for appearance’s sake even as he exulted inside — this was perfect!

Finally, when he was sure he could control his expression, he turned back to the rest of the pack. “As the Eye commands,” he growled. Drawing his sword, he turned to Muzgrahk — the Orc most likely to attempt to usurp him, and that he had demanded join his Warg Rider pack on the hunt for just that reason. “You will take over command of this pack,” he ordered. “You will circle Mirkwood to the north and catch the Dwarves when they leave it, then join the army as it approaches the Man town.”

Muzgrahk glared — he knew he was being set up for humiliating failure and kept away from his own supporters. But the orders had been given, and even if he was willing to risk the Eye’s displeasure by killing Bolg and attempting to take his place at the beginning of a major campaign, his Chief of Chiefs was ready for him. He reluctantly nodded. “It will be done.”

Bolg forced his Warg to back away until he was out of sword reach of his rival, then turned and thudded his spurs into the Warg’s sides, bracing himself as his mount leaped forward to race south. The messenger quickly joined him.

Now that there were none to see, the grin he had kept hidden spread across his face. Not only was his position as Chief of Chiefs of the Moria tribes secure as never before thanks to the Eye’s personal approbation, but this would be the bloodletting of a lifetime! His name would be sung about the gathering fires for generations to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Arwen. One of the changes I really liked about the first LotR movie was Jackson’s decision to make Arwen into a kickbutt action hero and replace Glorfindel with her for the race to the Ford. And then Jackson completely cocked it up by turning her back into a damsel in distress for Aragorn’s romantic subplot — he _really_ should have had _her_ be the one to deliver the reforged Anduril to Aragorn instead of her father, and have her join Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas for the run through the Paths of the Dead. That would have had her filling in for the rest of the rangers and her brothers in the book, and would have really upped Eowyn’s angst before deciding to secretly join the Rohirrim army. Ah, well, I’m sure fanfic writers have been fixing that error ever since. (I haven’t read a lot of LotR fanfic yet.) And this is my take on how Arwen gets from Tolkien’s version to Jackson’s.


	17. Ambush!

Gollum and Smeagol were getting frantic. The search for their Precious in the lower tunnels had proven fruitless. Now, though without sun and moon it was impossible for them to measure the passage of days, much less weeks, the passing time was like a constant drip ... drip ... drip on their fraying nerves. They couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest, were constantly pausing to listen for anything out of place, turning in place looking around for any hint that the Orc that must have found the Precious had discovered its secret and was sneaking up on them. Now they were crouched, rocking back and forth in front of the tunnel leading upward. The same tunnel they had used after leading Sakura to the Back Door.

“We must go up up up to the higher tunnels,” Gollum muttered. “Orcses don’t come here, we must go, hunt the Thief with our Precious.”

“No no no!” Smeagol protested. “Too many Orcses, too many Orces, nice Hobbits told us to be careful!”

“Too dangerous to stay, Thief doesn’t know yet, Thief hasn’t put on Precious yet, but when Thief does we knows!” Gollum dropped to hands and knees, moaning. “We knows — when it wears Precious it hunts us, kills us because we knows. We hunts it first!”

For a long moment there was silence, then Smeagol replied, “We hunts it first.”

/oOo\

“You’re late.”

Radagast the Brown started at the voice then, catching a faint whiff of burning pipeweed, turned toward the breeze and caught sight of a brief flickering ember in the late evening shadows cast by trees and canyonside. A moment later Gandalf the Grey’s shape seemed to ease itself out of the dusk, seated on a rock outcrop and puffing on his pipe.

Then Gandalf’s accusation registered, and Radagast shrugged. “I took a slight detour to Isengard to let Saruman know of our concerns.

“I know, I know, you advised me to bypass him,” he hastily added when his fellow Wizard started to object, “but it occurred to me that you wouldn’t want him to know of your growing doubts about the value of his advice.” It was Gandalf’s turn to stiffen in surprise, and Radagast chuckled. “Of course you have doubts, why else would you have asked me not to tell him that the Nine may be free before we have proof? But if we don’t involve him at all until we have proof, what will he think then? Better to tell him in the beginning and say that we are already seeking that proof before he has the chance to reject our — my — concerns.”

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully, shamed at his own kneejerk disapproval of Radagast’s actions. Even he sometimes forgot how sharp a mind was hidden by his friend’s bizarre appearance and behavior. _And after my chastisement of Sakura, too! Still, I wish he had thought of this before we parted, if I had known I could have stayed until Sakura awoke and made my farewells in person. Still, what’s done is done_. “Perhaps you are right,” he finally responded. “Any road, you are here now. Your rabbits cared for?”

“Yes, and my birds to keep them company.” Radagast waved back down the side canyon. “I found a cul-de-sac with plenty of grazing even with them still in harness, and no Orcs or wolves come up this way — or anything else that breathes, for that matter.”

“And with good reason,” Gandalf agreed grimly. The miasma that oozed out of their destination seemed to taint even the air they breathed — so much so that travelers using the High Pass that the canyon opened into wouldn’t camp at its mouth, hurrying past it even if that meant traveling into the night.

He tapped out his pipe and ground the ashes into the dirt with the toe of a boot. “A pity we cannot follow their example, or at least wait for daylight. But time presses, so let us be going.”

/\

The Gandalf inched along the narrow ledge, Radagast right behind him. He shivered in the breeze ruffling his robes, though more at the thought of the drop beside them than any cold — with it being a late summer afternoon, only the ‘stench’ of what had been long imprisoned here seemed to chill the air and dim the light.

He remembered the men that accompanied him when last he’d been there centuries before, and those that had been lost in the struggle to carry their burden along this ledge. But they even more than he had considered the loss of lives worth it to bind the Witch King of Angmar — the first and last of the Nine — deep in the most inaccessible, lonely place they could manage.

Then the ledge opened up into a small, flat area in from of a gaping cave entrance. Gandalf shivered again, this time at the sight of the occasional granite shard sticking up along that entrance and hanging from the ceiling, that looked uncomfortably like jagged, broken Orc teeth. _It’s just the aura of the evil that has been bound here, permeating this place. You expected this — and Dol Guldur was worse_.

But none of those truths eased his tightly stretched nerves.

Reaching the entrance, he reached one hand forward and frowned at the familiar sensation that washed through him — that he had _not_ expected. “My wards are still up.”

“Really? Are you certain?” Radagast asked, peering over Gandalf’s shoulder as if he could see the magic covering the entranceway.

“Yes, I am certain,” Gandalf replied. “My magic is a part of them, after all. They’ve faded over the centuries, I suppose someone of sufficiently strong will could push through them. But no one could do so without alerting me, Elrond and the Lady Galadriel.”

“But what attacked me, then?” Radagast asked. “And how did it acquire the Witch King’s dagger?”

“That remains to be seen.” Taking the same crystal he had used in the Orc tunnels when rescuing the Company, Gandalf again fixed it into the twisted roots at the tip of his staff and breathed light into it. That accomplished, he strode into the cave.

The front of the cave seemed natural, except for the lack of any life at all — no bats, no insects, not even lichen or fungus in spite of the water slowly dripping from stalactite to stalagmite and collecting in puddles.

The Wizards avoided the puddles as best they could as they carefully made their way deeper into the cave, around several twists and turns, until at last they stepped out of the cavern onto a new ledge that definitely was _not_ natural — a spiral down the sides of a square shaft. A spiral ledge that had held up very well over the centuries, though that was no surprise. The Dwarves had been as interested in hiding away the Nine as everyone else, and so had given the prison their best efforts. The constant drip of water was new though, at some time over the centuries erosion must created an opening to the rain and snowmelt above.

Twenty feet down the shaft — and one slip that sent Gandalf sliding down one stretch to slam into the wall and almost rebound off the edge — the pair reached their destination, and Gandalf sighed in disappointment though not surprise. The rusted but still solid iron bars that the Dwarves had installed and he had warded were broken and bent outward, so that he had to grasp them and swing around to reach the alcove they had guarded. And behind them, a shattered stone coffin.

He swung himself around the bars. “Empty,” he told the anxious Radagast waiting for him.

Radagast slumped. “As I feared,” he muttered. “But with your wards still intact I hoped … but how, Gandalf? How was he freed without breaking your wards?”

“He wasn’t freed,” Gandalf replied, “he freed himself. And I doubt he was the only one.” Grasping the bars with one hand, he leaned out over the shaft and extended his staff, slowly feeding more strength to the crystal. Its glow brightened, more and more of the shaft below becoming visible — as well as the additional alcoves below, each directly beneath the other, and all with the imprisoning bars broken and bent out. All eight of them.

“Yes, they are all free. We were fools. _I_ was a fool.”

As Gandalf pulled himself back upright, Radagast asked, “What do you mean, Gandalf?”

Gandalf sighed, and motioned for the other Wizard to lead the way back to the surface. “We truly believed that Sauron was gone, a shade of no real power. That he would never rise again. So when Elrond, the Lady Galadriel and I cast the binding spells and wards over the Nine’s prisons, we didn’t consider what would happen if they grew in strength. Then, when we learned that the Necromancer of Dol Guldur was Sauron returned, we didn’t think of how his rise would affect the servants who took their strength from him. _They_ were the ones that broke their own bindings. And since our wards were all focused outward, they simply walked out without hindrance — and without alerting us that they had escaped. I fear our arrogance may well have doomed our cause.”

Radagast didn’t say anything more as the two carefully made their way up the wet-slick spiraling ledge, and that suited Gandalf just fine as he wrestled with fresh guilt.

/\

The ambush came as dusk fell, when they were only a few furlongs from the mouth of the side canyon. It came as a complete surprise, aided by the lack of animal life that could have alerted them by being disturbed. One moment they were alone, and the next surrounded by nine spectral figures, swords drawn, cloaked and armored after the manner of long-vanished kingdoms, glowing faintly in the gathering dark.

Radagast and Gandalf instantly turned back to back, staves lifted at the ready diagonally across their bodies. Gandalf’s eyes narrowed as he looked over the figures silently standing around them. He could actually take some comfort in what he was seeing — the trees and brush vaguely visible through the Ring-wraiths’ forms told him that they weren’t yet close to their full strength.

Still, there were nine.

_So, what will they expect?_ he wondered. The stand-off wouldn’t last long.... “To my left,” Gandalf murmured. “You lead, I’ll shield. Push them up the canyon toward the others.”

“Understood,” Radagast replied, then whirled and charged the two Wraiths to their side. One of the Wraiths, more alert than the other, hastily lunged but Radagast’s staff easily batted the translucent blade aside, then swung around to take it in its side. The Wraith was easily knocked off its feet, flying up-canyon even as it seemed to come apart in a swirl of darkly glowing strands of energy. The second Wraith charged through its compatriot’s dispersing energy, sword raised, and Radagast met it staff to sword in a flurry of strikes, blocks and counterstrikes.

Gandalf had been slowly following his friend, backing up with staff at the ready, as the other Wraiths slowly advanced. The two that had been between the two Wizards and the mouth of the canyon were slowly drifting closer, both to the Wizards and their fellow Wraiths.

Then the second Wraith flew past Gandalf, up-canyon, coming apart even as it collided with the reforming shape of the first. “Done!” Radagast shouted.

Grinning fiercely, Gandalf spread his arms and shouted a single word, and a shining wall of light sprang across the canyon from side to side, angled so that all the Wraiths were trapped on the other side.

Radagast exclaimed, “Oh, well done, Gandalf!” — and then the Wraiths began beating at the barrier, and Gandalf shuddered as each strike seemed to send a wave hammering through him.

“Run!” he ordered. “Get to your rabbits and prove they are as fast as you say, take word to Galadriel that the Nine walk Middle Earth again.”

“But what about you?”

“I cannot leave without the shield collapsing, and then we would both be captured. Now, run!”

Radagast hesitated a moment longer, then turned to run down the canyon as fast as he could move, robe flapping and bouncing about bare legs. Good — Radagast might lack Saruman’s deep knowledge and Gandalf’s cunning, but no one could match him in the Wild that he loved. Once he reached his rabbits and sled and got some distance the Nine would never catch him, nor would any other of the Enemy’s slaves that might be around.

Of course, that wouldn’t do much for _Gandalf_.

Sweat was beginning to runnel down his forehead and plaster his hair to his skin as he struggled to hold the shield against the Nine’s relentless assault. If he had had only himself to think about and relief on the way, he would have pulled his shield down into a dome over himself and simply waited the Nine out — as weak as they were still, their assault would have been no more than pinpricks, his only concern would have been how long his strength could be poured into the shield.

But relief was _not_ on the way and if he turtled up inside his shield the Nine would simply divide, some staying to wait him out and the rest running down Radagast. No, he had to buy his fellow Wizard as much time as he could. And one other thing — Narya, the Ring of Fire, the ring of the Three that Cirdan Shipwright had given him when he had arrived in Middle Earth, could not be found on his person when he was captured.

Slowly, as one beat after another passed, his shining wall rippling more and more with each strike of the Nine’s translucent swords, he carefully worked the ring up his finger until it was at his finger’s tip, braced in place by the fingers on each side. Then, as his wall finally burst with a blinding flash that briefly turned Gandalf’s hastily closed eyelids red, he let Narya drop and stepped on it, tried to scuff dirt over it as he staggered forward, stunned by the collapse of his wall.

Even as he fought to keep from falling to his knees he managed to lift his staff, to parry the first sword strike as the Wraiths rushed forward, and the second, step to one side to dodge a second Wraith. He stabbed his staff forward into a third Wraith’s chest, lift and toss it away as it momentarily unraveled into nothingness, twisted and dropped his staff to parry two simultaneous strikes from front and side — and stiffened as the blow from behind that he hadn’t seen coming slashed through him and his body seemed to explode with burning pain like he’d never felt in his long years as a mortal. Then the same pain exploded again with a second blow, and a third, a fourth until his world was nothing but overwhelming fire that swept him away into darkness.

Surrounded by five of the Nine raining blow after blow through him, he dropped limp to the ground.

/oOo\

Galadriel hurried down the steps spiraling around the bole of the Mother Tree towards its base, unconcerned about the escort she’d left behind in her dangerous haste. Normally, she would have met any visitors high up the tree on the central platform, her husband on her side, her usual mask of pure serenity firmly in place, but the way Radagast had arrived riding his ridiculous (if remarkably fast) rabbit-pulled sled — at full speed without an escort — had scared her badly. The scouts on Lothlorien’s borders knew the Wild Wizard, of course, they would not have prevented him from entering the forest to seek her out, but at least one of them would have accompanied him. For him to be alone meant he hadn’t bothered to stop for any patrol he passed.

And worse, he was alone. She knew the mission Mithrandir had set himself, and for her old friend not to be with his fellow Wizard after visiting those prisons....

Then Radagast appeared below her puffing as he hurried up the stairs as fast as she was descending them. She managed to stop just in time to avoid colliding with him. She waited for a moment for his breathing to ease, then demanded, “Mithrandir?”

“Taken, my Lady,” Radagast reluctantly said. “We were ambushed as we returned from the Nine’s prisons. Gandalf bought me time to escape, to bring word,” Radagast replied. “My Lady, it was the Nine! Gandalf said they broke free of their prison by their own power, and so escaping without alerting you.”

“But that is not possible,” Galadriel whispered. “They were but shadows of what they had been, fading with time. They drew their strength from their master, they could only recover if ...” If their master was growing in strength as well. She had prayed that Mithrandir was wrong, but it seemed those prayers had not been answered. “Do you know where they took him?”

“Yes, once I reached the grasslands I shadowed them for a time before bringing word.” He hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly continued, “They are headed toward Dol Guldur.”

Galadriel staggered, one hand braced against the bole of the Mother Tree. “If we send scouts to run them down —”

“The Wraiths will keep moving without rest, night and day,” Radagast interrupted, “with their head start your scouts will never make up the difference. And even if they caught them, what then? Would any be able to stand against them?”

Arms slipped around Galadriel from behind. Her husband Celeborn — her rock, that allowed her to fly so high because he would ever be there to catch her if she fell — had caught up with her. “Aethirdil, send out the word for all to gather, we march on Dol Guldur at once,” he ordered one of the Elves currently serving as aides for their rulers, that had followed them down. As the aide hurried back up the stairs, he whispered in his wife’s ear, “We _will_ rescue Mithrandir. Your old friend will be outrageously flirting with you again within a moon, even if he is doing so from a bed as he recovers.”

Galadriel let herself rest against her husband’s chest for a long moment, to take strength from his support, then took a deep breath and straightened as he stepped back. “No, not so soon,” she disagreed. “For this, we will need more than strength of arms. Lord Elrond is on his way, and we will need to send word to Saruman to join us. We will need a united White Council for this.” She didn’t add out loud, _And two of the Three. Hopefully we will be able to recover Narya as well as Mithrandir_. Though it was an open secret that she and Elrond bore two of the Three, that Gandalf bore the third was a secret much more closely guarded. Close enough that perhaps Gandalf would be able to hide it when he was searched.

“Begging your pardon, my Lady, but Saruman will already be on his way,” Radagast said. “I stopped off in Isengard on my way around the mountains, and he said he would be on my heels so you could take council when Gandalf reported what we found.”

He didn’t say ‘when _we_ report’, Galadriel noted, suspecting that the Wild Wizard was well aware of how low an opinion of him Saruman held. But that didn’t matter at the moment, and she graced him with a brilliant smile even as her husband said, “Well done. Come, we have much to prepare before we march.”

Galadriel started to turn, then paused. “I am afraid that I cannot,” she said, then smiled impishly up at her questioning husband. “You’re standing on my train.”


	18. Rescue Mission

Galadriel swung down from her horse, ignoring the offer of help from Feanesion and Eolinthir, her two personal bodyguards, and from Radagast beside her as the Wizard hopped off his rabbit-drawn sled. It didn’t matter that she ached in every muscle from the speed and length of the ride across the vales flanking both banks of the Anduin to the southwest corner of Mirkwood, or that the weight of the two-piece steel plate armor covering her torso and the steel-and-leather strips circling her waist that she had never worn except for their fittings did their best to force her to the dead and tainted dirt beneath her feet, or that the boots her feet were enclosed in had covered those feet with blisters, or even that it was her husband in command of their assigned portion of the assault. She was Galadriel, the talisman held up by the Elves of Lorien against the Enemy, and she could show no weakness when Lothlorien’s army marched to war with her at its head.

Though when Celeborn stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, she allowed herself to _discreetly_ lean back against her husband. The relief was so great that for a moment she was able to ignore how much she _itched_.

“So, we are here,” Celeborn murmured as they gazed along the road at the looming outer wall of Dol Guldur, built since its capture from the Elves by Orcs. “No siege engines to knock down the walls or provisions for a lengthy stay, even if we could settle for a siege with Mithrandir held prisoner within.” His eyes swept along the top of the wall, ignoring the shadowed hilltop hall that seemed to loom over it, and he frowned at the lack of Men or Orcs — the thick clouds that loomed over the fortress and blocked the sun’s light meant that even Moria Orcs would have no trouble. And even as fast as the army had moved, a pace no army of Men could match, it was inconceivable that they had outrun word of their coming. _Still, from what Gandalf said after his scouting mission the ground between the outer and inner walls is now a noxious bog haunted by the dead. Perhaps they are simply waiting beyond it_.

Unaware of her husband’s concerns, Galadriel was focused on the gatehouse with a frown as deep as Celeborn’s — she did _not_ like the dark magic that pooled about that entrance.

She straightened and opened her mouth to say as much, when an Elf rose from open ground next to the wall that shouldn’t have been able to conceal a snake. _Too close!_ flashed through her mind as he — ‘she’ actually, in this case — stepped toward the gate. Before Galadriel could shout a warning a dark, smoky, writhing tendril coalesced in front of the gate, then lashed out. The scout tried to dodge back, but she couldn’t back up fast enough and her sword sweeping up to intercept passed through the tendril as if it were the smoke it appeared. She started to drop underneath, but the tendril angled down to wrap around her and yank her into the gatehouse.

Before Celeborn could react, Galadriel straightened. “This is _my_ concern,” she said grimly as she strode forward. “Radagast, attend me!”

“Yes, my Lady.”

The two started forward and Celeborn followed, waving Aelebras and Lendiros, his own bodyguards, to join his wife’s bodyguards and come forward with them. At Galadriel’s quirked eyebrow when his longer stride brought him alongside her, he said, “While I cannot see anything alive along the wall, that doesn’t mean there are no enemies in hiding. You and Radagast deal with that Shadow, and the rest of us will watch for more prosaic assaults.”

Galadriel’s eyes widened — the thought of a more physical attack hadn’t crossed her mind — but simply nodded and refocused on the gatehouse they were approaching. She shivered as the putrid ‘stench’ of that power pooling about the gatehouse washed over her. As soon as they returned to Lorien, she intended to head straight for the baths and wouldn’t leave for _days_.

The first strike came without warning, a new smoky tendril springing into existence to lash out at the approaching party like a striking snake. But Galadriel was ready and without breaking stride she lifted one hand, and the ring on her finger — Nenya, of the Three — blazed to life. A flat disc of pure light sprang to life in front of them, and the striking tendril slammed into it and exploded into a cloud of noxious gas that set the bodyguards coughing.

Even as the first tendril vanished, fresh tendrils sprang to life from the darkness of the gatehouse — not as thick or long but many, and the party’s continued advance had brought them within reach. This time the lashing tendrils probed around the edges of the disc, but Nenya’s blazing light grew brighter and Galadriel shaped it, spreading it out and curving it back until the party was surrounded by a dome of pure power.

She shuddered at the ‘feel’ the the tendrils crawling over the dome, probing for a nonexistent weak point, then frowned. She slowly said, “This is not the Enemy, but a piece of his power placed to guard. His attention is elsewhere.”

Celeborn nodded his acceptance of her report. “Can you overcome it?”

“Easily.” But her frown remained — it was _too_ easy. Still, they would have to play out the act. “Stay with me.”

She stepped forward then again, the others following her lead, and the glowing dome went with them to push back the crawling tendrils and press against the Dark of the gatehouse. For a long moment the edge of the dome flattened, and tiny beads of sweat dotted Galadriel’s brow as she fought back. Then the dome reformed its perfect half-sphere, pushing the Dark back away from the gate into the gatehouse. There was a split-second flash as if the entire world beyond the dome have vanished into void, then the Dark was gone. The gateway and bridge across the moat beyond it were clear in the dim light — empty except for the scattered body pieces of the scout splashed across it and the unique stench left behind.

Radagast had already focused on the _open_ inner gatehouse, and now it was his turn to frown. “There is no taint on the inner gate, whatever guards it has are simple mortals.”

And the iron bars of the portcullis that should have blocked their entrance were pulled up into their open position in the room above, the tips of their spikes several feet above their heads.

Celeborn was also looking up at those spikes. “This is too easy.”

“True,” Galadriel agreed, “but trap or not we have no choice but to enter.” She stepped forward only to pause when Radagast’s staff blocked her way.

“Your pardon, my lady, but others should take the lead.”

Celeborn nodded his agreement, then turned to wave to the army still pouring out of the surrounding forest and forming ranks behind them. With a shout the front line sprang into motion, shifting into a spear’s point aimed at the gate. Celeborn took his wife’s elbow to gently pull her to one side, out of the way of the lead elements thundering past them into the gatehouse and onto the bridge to the inner wall as the rest pulled up and waited. When Galadriel glanced questioningly at her husband he simply replied, “The first wave needs room.”

She nodded and listened — shouts, the twang of bow strings, a few screams and splashes that had to be bodies falling into the moat. Then Lendiros edged over to glance past the gatehouse along the bridge. He nodded to Celeborn, and her husband waved forward the next wave.

/\

Radagast and Celeborn glanced around as the three and their bodyguards strode through the inner gate into the outer courtyard, Radagast still frowning. “That explains the lack of resistance,” the Wizard said, “the place is practically empty.”

“Yes,” Celeborn agreed. “Didn’t you say that so many Orcs had moved into Dol Guldur that they had to be eating their own?”

“They were. So where _is_ everyone?”

Galadriel had kept her eyes firmly fixed ahead from the moment on the bridge that she had seen an Elf she had known for over two thousand years being pulled screaming under the moat’s putrid muck by several of the rotting corpses that made the moat their home. But now, as her husband and old friend talked she had looked around as well. She ignored the Elves that had preceded them, now hunting down the scattered handfuls of brutes on the inner wall or trying to escape across the outer courtyard to the illusory safety of the inner courtyard and its keep even as more Elves from the attack led by Elrond and Saruman on the other gatehouse a quarter-turn around the outer wall rolled over them. Instead, her eyes focused on a tall pole in the center of the courtyard, and the pair of cages dangling from the crossbar, too narrow to allow one to sit but too short to stand in upright. One of the cages held nothing but a skeleton, the corpse of the unfortunate that had died there long picked clean by crows and other scavenging birds, but the other —

“Mithrandir!”

She broke into a run, ignoring the lancing pain as her blisters broke. Celeborn and Radagast caught up with her almost instantly, Aelebras and Eolinthir passing her up. They unhooked the chain holding the cage suspended and fed link after link through the pulley to carefully lower it, and Galadriel was there to unlatch and throw open the door. She caught the Wizard as he toppled forward into her arms and dropped to her knees to lower him to the ground.

He looked awful. Fingers were bent at unnatural angles, he didn’t have any fingernails, his robe was patchy with blood from hidden wounds, and blood from his nose — broken and nostrils slit — had coated his lips and chin, and what skin wasn’t bloody was purpling from bruising. Then his wandering eyes focused on her face and he smiled, and she realized that not all the blood on his chin was from his nose. “I am afraid I am not presentable, my lady,” he lisped through broken and missing teeth.

She choked back a _totally_ inappropriate laugh, considering their circumstances. She brushed blood- and sweat-caked hair away from his face then shifted, trying to ease her steel corset off of the spots where it’d rubbed her hips raw even through the padding — how did soldiers _endure_ this? “I suppose we must make allowances, old friend,” she whispered. “After all, I myself am not exactly dressed for receiving guests.”

His lips twitched in what would have been a smile, then she felt his body stiffen in her arms as his eyes widened, focused past her shoulder. She was just beginning to twist around when there was a clang of steel – her husband’s blade blocking the strike aimed at her neck. Her own eyes widened, and she blanched at the sight of a translucent, faintly glowing Man wearing armor whose like she hadn’t seen in a thousand years, that hadn’t been there a moment before — a Man whose Power washed over her, leaving her feeling filthy ... slimy. A Wraith of the Nine!

For a moment the world seemed to freeze, then the Wraith slid its blade along Celeborn’s to try to push it down. Celeborn disengaged but whipped his sword back around before it had a chance to respond and the Wraith seemed to explode into a haze of vanishing strands of darkly glowing energy.

Then Radagast was stepping past her, his staff swinging to catch one Wraith in the stomach, knocking it to the side and making room for the Wizard to thrust and impale another through the chest. He lifted it, swinging it toward its companion, but it vanished in a swirl of energy strands before it could hit and he had to step back and parry as the first Wraith charged swinging.

Galadriel forced an arm underneath Mithrandir’s knees as she circled his shoulders with the other, then she staggered to her feet and looked around wildly. Radagast and Celeborn had taken up positions on each side of her, While Feanesion and Eolinthir, Aelebras and Lendiros tried to fill in the empty quarter positions in front and behind ... and ‘tried’ was the operative word. Radagast had an immersion in the Art even deeper than her own and to her eyes his staff shone with power; and Celeborn, while no more a master of the Art than any other Elf, wielded a sword out of legend. Their bodyguards had neither advantage, and even as she regained firm footing she was knocked staggering as Feanesion went down in a welter of blood. Eolinthir’s counterstrike took off the arm of the Wraith that had killed his partner even as it tried to charge at his queen and it exploded into the now-familiar swirling strands and vanished, but it would be back — and probably sooner than otherwise, now that one side of her defense had been halved.

She glanced around, and her heart sank as she realized that she was probably more right than she had known. Even with the sheer chaos of battle hammering eyes and ears, even with her lack of battlefield experience, it was clear that the group centered on the cages was the main target. Four Wraiths were rampaging through the Elven forces around them, keeping them terrified and looking to their own survival rather than coming to their commanders aid — or even realizing that it was needed — as the other five Wraiths came hammering in on her protectors over and over. And she couldn’t erect a shield as Radagast said Mithrandir had done when they were attacked, because that would simply pin her and her defenders in place while _all nine_ of the Wraiths turned on her people.

So all she could do was stand there holding Mithrandir in her arms and wait – wait as Radagast and Celeborn desperately protected Eolinthir, Aelebras and Lendiros as well her, blocking the attacks that would have ignored the common steel of those Elves’ armor and blades, giving those Elves the chance to strike back. Waited as thanks to their split attention blows got through so that Radagast was hobbling, almost hopping on one foot and Celeborn’s blood spattered from an arm hanging limp; as Lendiros and then Eolinthir fell, putting even more of the burden of defense on Wizard and Elf Lord.

Then two more figures strode out of the chaos, and Galadriel sagged with relief at the sight of Elrond and Saruman. Green-enameled armor and white robe were dust-covered, disheveled, liberally spattered with blood and gore, Saruman’s normally well-groomed beard wild and tangled and Elrond’s armor cracked in places, but they were unharmed.

Even as they approached the group around cages the four Wraiths that had been rampaging through the army abruptly converged, charging in from all sides, and the pair whirled to place back to back. Saruman spun a staff shining with power, knocking away blow after blow from the three on his side, then stepped forward and _thrust_ , spearing the middle Wraith through the gut, lifted and swung it into its leftward companion and continued his swing to slam the butt of his staff into the third’s temple. As his three opponents again came apart he turned toward Elrond just as the Elf Lord finished off the last of his Wraiths yet again, and the two spun in place, searching — nothing, the Wraiths were gone. Even the five that had been besieging Galadriel’s defenders had vanished.

Saruman straightened and turned to Galadriel with a regal nod. “Are you in need of assistance, my Lady?”

“You are well come, my Lord Wizard,” Galadriel replied, acknowledging his lordship over Isengard. She glanced down at Mithrandir when her old friend shifted and groaned in her arms. “As you can see we have found Mithrandir and the Nine’s strength seems to be spent for the moment, but —”

She broke off as the day suddenly seemed to darken, as a Presence made itself felt. Reluctantly, she turned to look up past the inner wall toward the hilltop hall, and blanched at the sight of a vague humanoid figure of fire radiating darkness hovering before it. Hovering in the air in an arc above it were the Wraiths they had been fighting.

**_You are too late, relics of a dead age. The East will fall. The North will follow. You will all die here. Two of the Three Elven rings will be mine. And what can Gondor do but cower behind their walls and wait for the end?_ **

Few on the field would be able to understand the Black Speech reverberating in their minds, but the Words’ impact was still felt. Elrond, Radagast and Saruman took involuntary steps back. Aelebras collapsed to the ground beside his fellow bodyguards under those Words’ foul weight, clutching his ears in a useless attempt to block out that Voice, one of many warriors around the command group that did so. Galadriel staggered, but Celeborn dropped the sword in his good hand and caught her by the shoulder. She flashed a thankful smile at him, then turned to Radagast. “Here, take Mithrandir.”

Radagast hastily took his fellow Wizard in his arms, and she turned back around to find the Wraiths dropping toward the Elven host in the outer courtyard. _Please, let them still be weakened by their efforts!_ She lifted her hand and on her ring finger Nenya blazed to life and a wave of light swept out, an expanding dome that washed over the host and caught the Nine in mid-air. For the first time since they had appeared they shrieked, their piercing screams dropping more Elves to their knees as the Nine shattered under the onslaught of glory.

Then the Voice came again. **_Your efforts are futile. The age of Elves is over, the age of Orcs has begun._**

“Not today! This land was ours, and it will be again!” Even as her defiant shout echoed across the battlefield, Galadriel closed her eyes, focused everything she had, everything she _was_ on the ring shining like a beacon on her finger, then reached _through_ the ring for the protections she had built up around her forest home, layer on layer, century after century, and _yanked_.

Against purely physical enemies, those defenses were primarily informational — within her borders no servants of the Dark could escape the constant feeling of being watched because they were. But for the spirits that haunted the night and dark places of evil deeds, that walked abroad in the corpses they should have left behind, that rode the wind, for them the way was shut — Lothlorien’s defenses were towering, impenetrable walls.

Now at her call those walls swept across the River, across the rolling plains between the River and Mirkwood, and for the briefest of moments Dol Guldur and all the leagues between were under Lothlorien’s protection.

The Nine vanished like blown-out candle flames. For a heart-stopping moment their Master held, wavering like a sheet in the wind, then seemed to come apart as he slowly faded away.

Galadriel released Lothlorien’s protections and staggered as they snapped back to their original boundaries, leaving behind the sweet scent of fresh loam and blossoms. Celeborn caught her arm for support, then grabbed her around the waist to hastily lower her to the ground as she went limp. She narrowed her eyes, trying to focus as his features went blurry. Then she felt the warmth of sunlight on her face – the clouds over the fortress were breaking up! Even as she slipped into unconsciousness, she carried the resulting smile at that realization with her into the darkness.

/\

When the world returned, she found herself in a moving makeshift litter. She attempted push herself up and failed to so much as lift an arm — she’d never felt so weak in her millennia-spanning life! Managing to turn her head, she found Celeborn walking beside her, his blond hair matted with blood on one side and his arm in a sling.

She tried to speak, and his head whipped around at her croak. He immediately called for a halt for the horses bearing the litter, then levered her up to lean against his shoulder before lifting a water skin to her lips with his good arm. Once she’d moistened her throat, she looked around. Her litter was between two coursers, and on all sides were more Elves. Most were walking, the few on horseback clearly wounded by the bandages wrapped around various body parts. And all the horses she could see were pulling travoises, presumably carrying more wounded. But hale or wounded, there were far too few Elves.

She managed to whisper, “Our people?”

“Half have been sent on ahead with Saruman,” her husband hastened to assure her. “Most of the rest are spread out around us, to provide forewarning if we are attacked.” _So we can get you to safety_ , he didn’t say but she heard anyway.

She grimaced but let it go. It wasn’t like she would be good for anything if they _were_ attacked. “Mithrandir?”

“Already gone with Radagast.” Elrond’s voice came from her other side and she managed to twist enough to see him, her eyes widening in shock — her old friend had been so badly hurt! —He hastily continued, “The Orc host that had been infesting Dol Guldur left less than a fortnight before our arrival, headed east. Mithrandir believes they are headed for Erebor, and intends to warn Laketown and the Woodland Realm of their coming — after a brief side trip, at least, he said he left something behind where he was captured.” He shrugged. “We tried to point out how badly he’d been hurt, but he insisted — said he would be lazing about on Radagast’s sled the entire way, so he would use that time to recover.” He smiled wryly at Galadriel’s faint, breathy snort, too slight to be refined — Wizards were tough but there would be nothing comfortable about _that_ ride, especially since they would have to detour around the army they were seeking to warn Laketown about.

Celeborn gently shifted her back down to lie flat. “But that is now his affair, our part is finished,” he said. “Rest, until we’ve returned home.”

She tried to protest, but her traitorous eyelids sank of their own accord. She didn’t feel the rocking as the horses bearing her litter were nudged back into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost a month and a half since my last chapter of _anything!_ Still, moving’s no fun but I’m mostly unpacked and definitely liking my new place better than my last one.
> 
> So, my version of the White Council driving the Necromancer (a.k.a. Sauron) out of Dol Guldur. The movie had its cool moments and I borrowed a bit, but Galadriel walking into a hostile fortress alone when the rest are right behind her, and with _bare feet?_ Really? And yeah, Sauron is still seriously weak and it was all Galadriel could do to expel him with wards she admittedly stretched to their limit but spend literally millennia building up. He is one tough bastard.


	19. Beauty and Terror

Thorin was getting desperate. It had been weeks since they had entered Mirkwood, and a more unpleasant forest was impossible to imagine — he suspected that not even Elves liked it. The light that filtered down through the tall trees was dim. That meant the undergrowth was less heavy than it might have been, but there was still enough that almost anything could be hiding right next to the road — path, really — that they had walked and shadows were everywhere. The nights were worse, with eyes gathered around them shining in the pitch black ... and some of those eyes clustered too close together in odd patterns. And remembering Beorn’s order not to leave the path they couldn’t gather wood for fires to chase away those eyes’ owners, only huddle together with two warily on watch and the rest catching what uneasy sleep they could.

That had eventually changed, but not for a reason anyone had liked — Beorn had underestimated the appetites of Dwarves, and except for Sakura’s store of lembas their food had run out. And the entire Company was united in its agreement that they would do without altogether rather than deprive their Hobbit. Especially since ...

He glanced over his shoulder at his older nephew, making it quick to avoid stumbling on one of the surface roots that littered the forest floor. And the need to look forward again meant he had good reason not to keep looking at the childlike figure loosely tied to Fili’s back so he wouldn’t drop her if he stumbled, her limp head on her bearer’s shoulder.

/\

“How is she?” Thorin quietly asked for all the other Dwarves gathered around — even Bombur, ignoring the pot of stew over the low fire full of venison and greens thanks to Kili and Fili’s archery skills and Oin’s foraging.

Oin finished his examination of their Hobbit and tucked her blankets about her. “I don’t know,” he replied, shaking his head as he sat back. “While she was still mostly aware most of the time I could at least measure her fading lucidity. Now …” He shrugged. “I doubt she’s stopped deteriorating just because we can’t see it most of the time.” Looking around at what little of the trees were still visible in the fading light, he added, “We need to get her out of this accursed forest soon or she may not survive.”

Thorin fought not to growl at the obvious statement — he _had_ asked, after all. “And we don’t even know how close we are to the forest’s edge. We could walk out of it as soon as we start out tomorrow, or not reach it for another week or more — or be going in circles!” He fought to suppress a wince — that statement had been as obvious as Oin’s. Nori _thought_ they were travelling in the right direction; no one else had a clue, so all they could do was follow the Company’s thief and poacher.

“Perhaps Dwalin, Fili and Kili could take her and her lembas and half of what we’ve foraged and run on ahead,” Balin said, though from his tone he was far from certain of his suggestion. And with good reason.

“Even if we’re going in the right direction, how would we find them again?”

Fili spoke up from across the circle. “We could meet you at the foot of Erebor, the ruins of Dale. There’s no way anyone can miss _that_ landmark.” Kili beside him nodded his agreement.

Thorin frowned thoughtfully. He didn’t like separating the Company, and he couldn’t imagine that being bounced on a running Dwarf’s back for hours—maybe days—would do Sakura any good. And Nori would have to go with them to make sure as best he could that they didn’t get lost, which meant that those left behind _would_ get lost. Still, he couldn’t think of anything better. He was just opening his mouth to agree to the suggestion when Ori spoke up.

“What about up?” Everyone turned to stare at the youngest Dwarf and he shrank in on himself for a moment before straightening. “What about up?” he repeated. “Maybe whatever is affecting her is like low-hanging mist.” He waved at the trees around them. “Like that time you took me hunting, Nori, remember? How we climbed that ridge and it was like coming up out of a lake, a sea of mist below us?”

Nori nodded, smiling for a moment at the memory, before he refocused on their sleeping burglar and the smile vanished. “It’s a good thought, but how do we get her up there? I might be better at climbing trees than anyone else here but Sakura, but I doubt the two of us would be light enough for me to haul her high enough to matter.”

“In the morning, just after she’s had her first lembas,” Oin suggested. “She’s always a little more lucid then, if the curse diminishes as she gets higher she may be able to make the final climb herself.”

Thorin nodded. “It’s worth a try,” he agreed. “That was a good idea, Ori.” Ori brightened under his king’s praise, and Thorin winced as everyone seemed to relax a little even as he tried to force back his own growing hope. It couldn’t really be that simple, could it? “But that’s for morning. Gloin, Dori, I believe you have first watch.”

/\

“Sakura, lass, it’s time to wake up.”

The uneasy dreams that had haunted Sakura’s nights slowly let her go, and she opened her eyes and peered up at the Dwarf kneeling over her, barely visible in the murky darkness that permeated her world. “Balin?” She knew she should be concerned about the worry in his face, but she couldn’t work up the strength to figure out why.

“Aye, lass. Here’s your breakfast.”

He levered her up to a sitting position and offered her a lembas wafer. She took it and mechanically ate, and after a few minutes the dark haze seemed to lighten a bit. She glanced around at the rest of the Company, laboriously counting, and felt a distant sort of relief — everyone was still accounted for.

Then Thorin knelt beside her. “Sakura, we need your help.” He waved at the trees around them. “We’re running out of food, and don’t know how close we are to the edge of the forest. We need you to climb up and get a look over the top of the forest cover, look for how close we are to Erebor. You’re the only one light enough to manage it. Can you do this?”

They ... they needed her help? She forced herself to focus on the king-in-exile’s face and nodded.

“What did I say?” Thorin gently asked.

“Climb a tree, look for the Lonely Mountain, see how close it is.”

Thorin puffed out a relieved breath and smiled. “That’s right. Nori?”

“Right, come on, Sakura, I’ll race you up as high as I can get. This tree ought to do.”

Sakura pushed herself to her feet and started to stumble after the thief, but paused. Something was wrong — something was missing, something didn’t _feel_ right. Then she realized there was no weight on her shoulders, pulling her back slightly. She looked around. “Where’s Sting?”

“I don’t think—” Balin started to say, only to break off when Dwalin shook his head.

“Sakura’s right, never go anywhere on the march without our arms. Not even up a tree.”

Nori had turned from the tree and started toward the Company’s baggage, but Ori beat him there and eagerly rummaged through the pile to pull out Sting in its scabbard and harness, along with her pistol and knife. He handed them to his brother and Nori strapped them onto Sakura, making sure all the buckles were secure and Sting’s hilt properly above her shoulder with the safety strap across the hilt to keep it from falling out. Once satisfied, he led her to the tree and gave her a boost up to the lowest branches then jumped up to grab one and haul himself up. “Let’s go, lass.”

They started to climb, slowly. It wasn’t the race Nori had joked about, but she had already forgotten—lost in the Now, her world had narrowed to simply reaching up for each new branch and making sure her footing was secure until the branches began to bend under her weight. She paused and looked around, then down to find Nori several paces below her.

He grinned and waved her on. “I’ve hit my limit, lass, go on.”

Sakura looked around her again, then up. The light had grown stronger as she climbed, and the world seemed oddly divided between a realm of shifting green and scattering shadows as the branches moved in the breeze, even the occasional flash of blue sky overhead, and the same thick, dark miasma that had clouded her sight and choked her breath ever since ... since when? What?

She scrunched up her face as she forced herself to think, to remember—the road! In spite of her constant nausea thanks to the evil lay on Mirkwood she had managed to bear up so long as they were under whatever Elvish magics protected the road, but leaving it so that they could forage for food had been like walking into the smoke of some form of hallucinogen. As hard as she tried she couldn’t remember how many days had passed since then, they had all run together into into a mass of haunted dreams and vague, barely-aware awakenings—had she really turned around once to find herself walking behind her?

Suddenly desperate to reach the sunlight she instinctively lightened her weight and scrambled upward, within minutes clearing the last of the branches to emerge into the sunlight. She blinked away the sun-dazzled tears as her eyes adjusted to the bright morning light, then looked around.

It wasn’t just the light that was dazzling, so was the view—the light wind had faded to a breeze, sending sun-dappled ripples through the floor of leaves that surrounded her; the sky was a deep blue, with scattered white cotton candy clouds; and all around hr was a massive flock of huge butterflies like she’d never seen, with wings so deeply blue they were almost black.

And most wonderful of all, the murky miasma had vanished as she broke through the surface of the leafy sea. Even the nausea that had haunted her since entering Mirkwood was gone!

Finally, an insistent voice calling her broke through her blissful reverie. “ ... lass, can you see Erebor? Sakura!”

 _Oh, right, Nori’s up here, too_. And she’d actually had a reason for climbing this high. She hastily looked around, and there in the distance was the bare rocky peak of a huge mountain that _had_ to be their destination.

“I can see it!” she called back. “It’s close, we must almost be at the edge of the forest!”

She was too far away to hear his sigh of relief, but his pleasure at the news was evident in his voice when he called back, “Good to hear! Let’s get back down and let the other know. Make sure you don’t lose track of the direction on the way, now.”

Sakura blanched. Go back? Back down into _that?_ “I ... do you think we can start a little late today?”

There was a moment of silence, then Nori replied, “We can spare half a day for foraging and hunting, even a full day. Stay up here as long as you like, Little One, I’ll pass on the good news.” There was the rustle of leaves as he started back down.

Sakura grimaced. _Great, they’re back to thinking I’m a child. I suppose I can’t blame them, but I’d better break them of the habit again before we get to Lonely Mountain or all thirteen will be galumphing along behind me when I_ try _to sneak down to look for the Arkenstone_.

But her ill humor was a temporary thing, quickly set aside as she gripped the sewn-shut pocket with her wedding ring and looked around again at the beauty that surrounded her, luxuriating in the feel of sunlight on her face.

/\

She would never know how long she basked in the sun and the breeze and the delight of feeling healthy and clearheaded in she had no idea how long. But in the end, it was the breeze that saved her — because it made it all the more obvious that _something_ was moving through the trees, pushing and knocking against limbs so that their highest leaves moved against the wind, disturbing the ripples sweeping across the forest roof.

Instantly allowing her natural weight to return for a split-second, she _dropped_ straight down to catch and swing onto a branch ten paces below with one hand while yanking out her knife with the other. She gazed intently in the direction of approach of whatever it was that was coming, then shrieked as the _biggest damn spider she’d never imagined_ came bursting into view out of the leaves racing toward her along the trees’ highway of intertwined branches.

In her shock she toppled off her branch then dropped her knife as she fell, bouncing off several branches before grabbing another. Twisting around she found the Spider scuttling down toward her, its pincer-like jaws spread wide. She could not _believe_ how fast that thing was! She tried to leap back to another branch, but the Spider’s front legs snatched her out of the air. The next thing she knew she was spinning in place, the world whirling around her as webbing bound her legs and crawled up her thighs.

She hastily scrabbled at her holster, unsnapping the flap and yanking out the pistol just before the webbing wrapped around her hips. She was getting lightheaded with all the whirling about but she couldn’t close her eyes, she had use the glimpses of the Spider to pick out where its head was and time the shot, right ... now!

The gunshot’s thunder echoed through the forest, the recoil smashing the pistol into her forehead and snapping her head back, and the top of the Spider’s head splashed out. All eight legs jerked spasmodically then went limp, and the body slowly toppled over to begin its fall toward the ground — taking the half-dazed, half-bewebbed Sakura with it.

 _Shit shit shit I’m still attached to its spinneret!_ She dropped the pistol to try to grab a passing branch with both hands, only to be yanked away by the Spider’s weight. Then it slammed directly onto a broad, strong branch. As it slowly tilted to one side before again before dropping off, she frantically slapped at a passing branch, managed to fall on the opposite side of the branch that had stopped the Spider, swung around it even as the branch bent under the Spider’s weight, grabbed another branch to stop herself from being yanked back over again ... and the spinneret broke free of the webbing, again sending the Spider plummeting downward.

Now dangling by her hands as she gasped for air, Sakura pulled herself up onto the branch she had caught with a relieved sigh as she reached over her shoulder to unhook the strap holding Sting in its sheath and drew the blade ... her Dwarves must be terrified for her, thanks to that —

She suddenly realized that she was hearing shouts from the ground below, much more than could be accounted for by one dead Spider however big. They were under attack!

She began frantically sawing at the webbing wrapped around her up to her thighs.

/\

Sakura dropped from the tree’s lowest branch to land in a crouch, eyes searching in all directions. Nothing ... at least, no movement — the Company’s backpacks and weapons lay scattered around on the forest floor, as well as several more Spider corpses along with the one she’d killed. She was too late.

Not that she was surprised, she’d known she was running out of time when the number of Dwarves bellowing below her had dwindled. In the end she’d had to cut away her leggings to get clear of the webbing she’d been wrapped in, and it had taken so _long_.

For a moment she wilted as her adrenaline rush faded and despair fueled by the miasma haunting the forest washed over her, then she forced it away and straightened. _Come on, Sakura, you’re on the clock. You have to find and free everyone before they end up on the dinner table, and this place gets to you again. So, where’s your gun?_

She looked around again, then up. She walked back to the tree she’d just dropped down from. _Let’s see, I was about_ there _when I dropped the gun, so ..._ She looked around on the forest floor, then gusted a sigh of relief at the sight of the pistol. She hastily snatched it up and reholstered it — she couldn’t risk using it again until she’d had a chance to clean it and make sure the barrel wasn’t blocked — then looked around for her pack only to find that it had been trampled during the fighting. Oh, well, the lembas could still be eaten even if the wafers were a little crumbly. And there was her bowie knife, stuck point down in the ground!

Deciding she was as ready as time allowed, she started looking over the ground again. Her older brothers had only taught a little about tracking to their little sister insisting on tagging along on a few hunts, before everything went to hell (or rather, when the long-deteriorating international mess finally blew up and yanked her out of her childhood), but it shouldn’t be _that_ hard, considering what was being dragged away — there! Multiple drag marks, clear as day, heading off to the south.

She hurried after them, rounded a bush, and slammed to a halt at the sight of the blond (but except for Elrond and Arwen weren’t they all, it seemed like) green- and brown-leather-clad Elf on one knee in front of her, bow drawn and arrow pointed right between her eyes.

In a tone much too harsh for the flowing beauty of his voice even when speaking Westron, he demanded, “What _are_ you, and what is your business here?”


	20. A Rescue!

Tauriel dropped out of the trees to the left of her fearless leader, and had to grin at the sight — stern, oh-so-serious Legolas actually down on one knee so he could be at least close to eye level when he confronted the creature they’d found while investigating that awful blast of noise. An entirely new creature, as small as a _young_ Elven child with Elves’ pointed ears and holding an Elven child’s sword with a confidence that was anything but childlike, lacking a child’s softness with a woman’s curves, and with feet too big and practically furred on top.

_Surely that cute little thing didn’t make that sound, so what did?_ The Elf maiden scanned the clearing they were on the edge of, then the forest behind her, but couldn’t see anything else.

“I asked, what are you, and what are you doing here?” Legolas demanded again in Westron as more of the patrol dropped to the ground and began investigating the debris in the clearing.

“I’m Sakura, a Hobbit,” the tiny creature replied in accented Quenya, “and I am going to rescue my friends. Come along if you like, or get out of my way.”

Friends? Tauriel glanced around the chaos of the clearing, then at the drag marks that had to have been left by web-enwrapped people hauled off by their captors. They weren’t the first such drag marks she’d seen, and then ... As gently as she could, she said, “Sakura, it is most likely already be too late”

Sakura blanched at Tauriel’s words, but shrugged. “I still have to try.”

Before Legolas could say anything, Elthamor called out, “Legolas, you need to see this!” The three turned to face the approaching scout to find him holding a sword, one whose smooth, sleek curves clearly proclaimed its Elven manufacture.

Legolas rose to his feet, returned the arrow to his quiver, and took the offered weapon. His eyes widened as he examined the runes running along the blade, and he whirled to Sakura. “Do you know what sword this is?”

“Yes, it’s Orcrist, Lord Elrond told us when we stopped over in Imladris. We found Glamdring in the same Troll hole, Mithrandir has it now. We can talk about it later, I don’t have time for this!”

“Imladris? Mithrandir? Wait!” Legolas lunged for her, but she wasn’t _that_ close and she spun, the backpack straps she’d shifted to the edges of her shoulders when she’d shrugged now slipping down her arms to let the backpack fall away. She slapped a reaching hand out away from her, and actually dove _between_ his legs before rolling to her feet and darting into the forest along the trail left by the captors of her friends.

Legolas stared after the ‘Hobbit’ and sighed. “Tauriel, go after her, keep her alive — we need more answers. I’ll get everyone and follow you.”

/\

Sakura darted through the forest along the clear trail left by the Company’s attackers, doing her best to not think about a nature program she’d once seen on Animal Planet about spiders and insects — _especially_ about their feeding and breeding habits....

_Don’t think about it, don’t don’t don’t —_ she tripped over a root and sprawled flat, Sting flying from her grip. She lay there for a moment, clutching at fallen leaves and sucking in shuddering breaths as the darkness seemed to close in ... _Stop that! Pull yourself together or you won’t be able to rescue anyone even if you’re not too late!_

She lifted herself up on her hands and looked up to find the female Elf that been next to the Elf that had intercepted her standing there, holding Sting by the blade and offering her the hilt. The Elf whispered, “I’m Tauriel. Are you all right?”

Sakura pushed herself to her feet and took back Sting, whispering, “I’m fine.” _No, I’m not_. “It’s just the curse on the miserable forest getting to me.” She looked around, eyes widening at the sight of tatters of webs hanging off tree branches. “It’s a good thing I tripped, this isn’t the kind of place you want to rush into. How will my friends be held? Trapped in burrows? Bound to tree trunks? Hanging from branches?”

“Hanging from branches. Can you climb?”

“Yes.”

Then why don’t I create a diversion and you free them?”

Another voice came from behind them, the Elf that first stopped her — Legolas, hadn’t he been called? “Or we could simply kill them while she cuts her friends free.”

Sakura turned and looked up, to find him gazing down at her, cool and haughty, Orcrist in his hand. She nodded. “That works, too. Let’s go.”

/\

Tauriel released her first arrow at the Spider about to bite the thrashing Dwarf — they could have used a little more time for the other scouts to spread out more around the infestation, but the Spiders’ decision to use the fattest of the Dwarves as dinner instead of for breeding had pushed up the time frame.

Besides, with the Spider stretched upright with its back towards her as it was about to drive its fangs into its prey, it made such a _lovely_ target — her shot stabbed through the chitin covering the top of the brain cavity, and the Spider toppled backward away from the Dwarf as its legs spasmed.

(And hadn’t _Dwarves_ been an unpleasant surprise? She had expected more ‘Hobbits’ like Sakura, and things had just gotten more complicated. But that was for later, and above her level of authority anyway.)

More arrows darted between trees to pick off other clear targets, and even as more corpses joined her victim on the forest floor the air was abruptly filled by the all-too-familiar high-pitched chittering of angry Spiders, to Elvish ears just on the edge of recognizable speech. Spiders came boiling out of the webbing-draped trees, and Tauriel’s eyes widened at the sheer number even as she snatched up an arrow from the row embedded in the ground in front of her, drew and loosed, drew and loosed, drew and loosed, a Spider collapsing with each shot, then dropped the bow and drew her pair of long daggers and charged to meet the oncoming tide.

The next few moments were a whirl of death-dealing, her daggers seeking out joints and seams, the vulnerable weak spot between the multitude of eyes even as she dodged thrown lines of webbing, attempts to drop on her from branches above, Spiders leaping toward her with fangs bared and dripping with their soporific poisons.

She kicked a Spider off Lithirdil and half-severed a front leg and fang before slicing through what passed for its spine, found herself momentarily without an opponent, and looked around — where was the Hobbit?

One of the webbed-up Dwarves dropped, thudding onto the ground with a groan, and Tauriel looked up to find Sakura on a thick branch, already slashing through the webbing anchoring another Dwarf. _How did she_ do _that? Granted, I was concentrating on the Spiders, but still_ —

Then another Spider was leaping at her and she had to stay where she was over Lithirdil’s drugged form ... she dropped her knives and caught the _thing_ ’s fangs as she fell prone on her back, caught its thorax with her feet and _pushed_ , throwing it over her head. Rolling onto her stomach, she snatched up her knives and launched herself at the Spider just as it managed to rock itself enough to flip right side up, embedding one dagger between its eyes and the second through the ‘spine’ in the crack where its head joined the thorax.

Yanking her daggers free as the Spider spasmed, she whirled to look around again in time to see another Dwarf drop. She looked up, ignoring the Hobbit crawling along a branch being shaken by a struggling Dwarf still hanging from it, instead searching the trees — yes, several Spiders were scurrying along the branches toward Sakura. Tauriel snatched up the bow she’d dropped and started firing.

/\

Sakura whirled when the first arrows whipped past her, then yelped when she toppled off her perch. She desperately grabbed and managed to catch the branch with her free hand, leaving her dangling a good four or five paces over the scattered bewebbed Dwarves she’d cut down. Even as she gasped at her close call, she looked around again to see a Spider falling to the ground to land on another already there. Both were twitching as they died.

_Too close_. She had gotten serious tunnel vision, so focused on cutting down the Dwarves that she had stopped paying any attention to the larger fight going on around her. She hadn’t made that kind of rookie mistake since her second mission, and it had almost killed her then — possibly _had_ killed Hildebrant, though no one but her had ever held it against her. If she didn’t get her act together, she had the queasy feeling that it would happen again.

She looked around for more Spiders, being careful to look _up_ as well as twist around to check behind her, then when she didn’t find any close to her started hacking at the rope of webbing holding — Bombur, from the size — until he dropped onto the pile of Dwarves below them. Grinning at the groans and shouts from Bombur’s unwilling cushion (perhaps she have sorted them by size before she started cutting them down), she did a quick count of the thrashing bundles of white, sighed with relief when she found thirteen, and let go of the branch to drop onto Bombur. “Quiet, everyone, I’ll cut you all free as fast as I can!”

/\

As the Hobbit began cutting her friends free Tauriel continued scanning the trees from where she again straddled Lithirdil, arrow nocked and ready to draw at the least hint of a Spider approaching the pile of Dwarves. By now the infestation should have been cleared out, but there might be leakers —

There was a _crack_ behind her and she whirled to find Legolas there, shaking ichor from Orcrist as a now-headless Spider collapsed at her feet. Legolas glanced over at the pile of cursing Dwarves and one Hobbit sawing at their wrapping, and cocked an eyebrow. “I know I told you to keep her alive, but not at the cost of your own. There are not enough of us as it is, we cannot afford to lose even one. Especially a female.”

A blushing Tauriel’s eyes dropped for a moment before she was able to force them back up to meet Legolas’s.

He held her gaze for a long moment before nodding and looking around. “I believe this infestation is almost cleared out. I will guard Lithirdil, go help her free the rest of those ... her friends.”

/oOo\

“That’s the last of them.” Tauriel threw the eggs she’d dug out of Ori into the fire they’d started after retracing their steps to the clearing where the Spiders had ambushed the Company, then wiped the blood away from where she’d cut into his abdomen before rising to her feet and stepping away.

Sakura wiped the sweat from Ori’s forehead like she’d done with all the other Dwarves but Bombur. “Almost done, just a little longer while your brother stitches you up. You’ve been very brave.” And he had been — he hadn’t screamed, and the Elves holding him down had had an easy time of it, easier actually than Dori or Oin.

Ori couldn’t speak around the strip of leather between his teeth, but he nodded and Sakura hastily wiped away fresh sweat before it could splash into his eyes. Then his brother started his work and the boy went stiff, a groan escaping his clenched jaw and fresh sweat runneling down the side of his face. Sakura was _very_ glad she hadn’t held his hand as she’d considered, she suspected that the grip of even the youngest of the Dwarves would have snapped the bones of her hand like so many twigs.

Then Dori was finished, and the Elves let go and backed away. Fili and Kili levered Ori up, and Sakura wrapped what bandages they had left around his stomach. She said, “There, that should do until we reach the Woodland Realm and some _real_ healing.” She glared up at the visibly impatient Legolas. “There _will_ be better care there, right?” She could feel the miasma that permeated the forest seeping back into her soul, her ability to think dropping moment by moment (at least she thought she could — it could have been psychosomatic, just knowing what it would do to her), and the Elf’s obvious dislike of her friends had set her teeth on edge.

He was unmoved by her fierce glare, simply cocking an eyebrow. “Yes, of course. My father will see to it, however little reason we have to care for Dwarves.” He glanced around at the glowers from the Dwarves at his statement, and smiled thinly. “You will find our hospitality a great improvement over that of the Spiders. Consider yourselves fortunate that they decided to consume only one of you, and that one after they had hauled you all to their lair. If they had injected you with their digestive juices instead of implanting their eggs, there is nothing we could have done for you but end your screams by slicing your throats.” The Dwarves paled, and his smile broadened when Bombur doubled over as he lost his breakfast. “So come along, if you hurry we can be there by nightfall.”

The Dwarves grumbled as they picked up their backpacks, glaring at the Elves that surrounded them (including the one that had been carried to the camp, and now stood only with another Elf’s help). But Sakura noted the glares’ half-hearted quality and suppressed a smile — yes, they were prisoners, but it could be a lot worse. She settled her own backpack on her shoulders (she’d dumped out the most badly shattered fragments of the lembas, to their captors’ surprise), settled her holstered pistol on her hip (the Elves had naturally disarmed everyone including her, but of course didn’t recognize her gun for what it was), then stepped over beside the leader and looked up. “Your father, did you say?”

He glanced down at her with that same aloof expression that she was finding increasingly irritating. “Yes, Thranduil, king of the Woodland Realm.”

Sakura’s irritation vanished, blown away by her shock, and she bit back a groan. _Of course_ the Elf she had been all but insulting to his face was a prince! _What else can_ possibly _go wrong with this quest?_


	21. Confrontations

Thorin, still weak from the Spiders’ poison and the blood loss from having the eggs carved out of him, stumbled along through the darkening forest, torn between fury and worry. Fury at the Elves; at being captured by Elves; at the fact that he _owed his life_ to Elves, along with the lives of the rest of his Company besides Sakura. Fate had been playing with them since they’d arrived at Bag End, and while he was grateful for the addition of Sakura to the Company (as much as it pained him to say it — she really was too young whatever her experiences growing up) and Beorn’s help had been most welcome, between Trolls and Orcs and Elves and Orcs again and the Forest and Spiders and now Elves again — all before even _seeing_ their lost home — he had to wonder just Who was playing with them for Its own amusement. But for the worry ...

He glanced sideways at their burglar and stumbled forward again when his foot caught on a barely visible tree root. Thanks to his hands being bound behind his back, only a hasty grab at his shoulder by one of the Elves kept him from planting his face in the leafy carpet. (When the light had begun to dim with the approaching night, the Elf in charge had ordered that their prisoners be bound to prevent escape attempts, exempting only Sakura when the Dwarves had loudly demanded that she be left alone.)

The Elf that had caught him — Tauriel? The one that had helped cut them free from the webs, then carved the eggs out of their guts, anyway — also glanced toward Sakura. She had been doing that more and more as the day wore on and Thorin could understand why, or at least why _he_ had been doing so (though he couldn’t see why the Elf would care). Despite dull, dirty hair and slightly pasty complexion, for a time that childlike beauty that had so stunned him back at Bag End had returned with the energy that had filled her as she cut the Dwarves free of the webbing and ushered them away from the mostly-ended fighting, had tended to them as Tauriel had wielded her knife. But as the march had gone on, that animating energy had faded and her gaze had turned inward until Thorin had to wonder how she was watching where she was going.

“What’s wrong with her?”

At the whispered question Thorin glanced up at Tauriel then away, ignoring the concern that the Elf had pasted on her face. “She’s ... been ill.” Good, a non-answer answer Balin could be proud of.

“So why isn’t one of you carrying her?”

Thorin looked up again, glowering, then hastily returned his gaze to the ground again when his foot bounced off a rock. “You mean, besides the fact that our hands are tied behind our backs? She has her pride. But we were carrying her for awhile.”

“I see. Well, then ...” Without warning, the Elf twisted, caught Sakura by the wrists, and swung her up and around to settle on her back with an arm over each shoulder.

“Hey, what are you doing!? Put me down!”

“My apologies, but you were beginning to slow us down,” Tauriel nonchalantly replied. “Remember, we want to reach home by nightfall.”

Sakura grumbled something undoubtedly rude under her breath (at least for Thorin, he suspected the Elf heard it just fine), but to his surprise didn’t make any further objections, simply wrapping her legs around the Elf’s waist as best she could. He exchanged glances with Balin on his other side before returning his attention to the forest floor in front of him: if Sakura wasn’t complaining about being coddled, she was even worse off than he feared and had simply been hiding it well. He sent up a silent prayer: _Please, these are Elves — wherever we’re heading, let it be protected from whatever is affecting her_.

/\

Sakura knew the instant the party crossed into the corner of Mirkwood the Woodland Elves claimed as their own, between one heartbeat and the next oppressive miasma seeping into her soul vanished.

She sagged with relief for a few moments as she luxuriated in its absence, before finally whispering (out of concern for ‘shouting’ with her mouth right next to Tauriel’s ear), “You can put me down, now.” Then when Tauriel failed to react, she began pulling on the hands gripping her wrists. “I said, you can put me down now!”

Tauriel winced at the shout. “If you’re sure....” She let go of one hand and swung the Hobbit around and down.

Sakura stumbled slightly on landing, but recovered before the Elf could catch her and strode along. She caught the Dwarves’ relieved glances, but was too busy luxuriating in the cleansing feeling that had swept through her — she’d only _thought_ the curse was gone above the forest but she’d been wrong and now she felt so light and clear she was sure a breeze would blow her away, that she could step into shadow and vanish from sight. She was so giddy she failed to note the bemused glances from the Elves around her.

She didn’t even notice when they crossed a narrow bridge over a rushing river.

She _did_ notice, though, when the dim sunlight vanished with the closing of the massive doors behind them, to be replaced by torches. And she _definitely_ noticed the new ... one couldn’t really call it a bridge, more like a meandering path that only occasionally made contact with the ground — and just as occasionally crossed over more rivers. Or the same river meandering as much as their path, perhaps. She didn’t care, she just edged her way to the absolute center of the path and kept her gaze fixed at eye-level (for her) or higher — well away from all the deep wetness they were walking over.

She had to admit that in its own way, this new Elven realm was as impressive as Rivendell. It did lack the feeling of peace that had hung over that valley, though from what Arwen had said that was Elrond’s doing, somehow. And being underground it lacked the tamely wild open gardens.

But the Elves of Mirkwood had compensated by huge windows letting in beams of sunlight; plants growing all over in whatever patch of soil that sunlight bathed, bushes and vines, even an occasional small tree (though probably huge examples of her mother’s bonsai trees, considering the limited space for growing); and the roots of the trees above exposed and polished to form a half-natural form of art just like at Bag End, if on a much vaster scale (her breath hitched for a moment at the memory of the memory of that homey Hobbit hole, before she pushed it aside). And as at Rivendell every wall and pillar was carved, though where Rivendell’s carvings meshed with and complemented the trees and plant growth that filled it, here the carvings replaced them.

And as at Rivendell, this underground realm of soft browns and greens was _alive_ in a way that most of the world was not, even if not in the same way as the Shire.

Finally, Sakura pulled her attention away from her surroundings and looked up at Tauriel. “So where are we going?”

The Elf glanced down at her and smiled briefly. “We sent word ahead of our arrival, and the king has required your presence.”

“Oh.” Sakura hadn’t noticed any of the Elves running ahead, but she’d been pretty out of it for awhile....

The dimming sunlight vanished as they passed through another massive set of doors into an equally massive torchlit room — a flat-topped stone spur, rather, thrust out into a huge cavern, the barely-visible rough stone walls beyond a steep drop into unknown depths. Though there were pillars aplenty for the torches’ sconces, broad pillars carved like trees with the sconces like branches arcing away and up. Torches, she noted, that were burning cleanly and brighter than she would have expected. She glanced up but couldn’t see the ceiling, to tell how smoke-stained it might be. _Not very, I’ll bet. They must have some way of treating the wood. I wonder if the Dwarves know it_.

Then she caught sight of the tall Elf waiting for them, standing beside a carved and silver- and gem-inlaid throne, and she put aside all thoughts about taking that method back to the Shire to focus on the Now. _Showtime_.

/\

Thorin had been relieved at first, when Sakura had so miraculously revived — to the point he had been half-expecting a ‘No!’ at any time (though about what at the moment, he couldn’t exactly imagine). But when the doors to the Elven caverns slammed closed his worry returned, and when the female Elf said the king had demanded their presence that worry transformed into deep, burning anger. He remembered Tranduil ... oh, he remembered him….

Then they entered into the king’s presence and Thorin fought to keep from throwing himself at that hated figure, the fight so intense he barely noticed the other male Elf dressed in the same brown and green leathers as their captors, until Thranduil leaned over and quietly said in the other Elf’s ear, “Mirthalorn, is that a Hobbit, as you thuoght?”

“Yes, my lord,” the Elf replied as quietly as his king, “I was right — one of the small folk that live along the road between Gray Havens and the Misty Mountains such as I saw when I wandered that way several centuries ago.”

The king nodded acknowledgment, and Thorin’s anger was swept away by a wave of fear for their burglar. _Don’t be a fool, he’s simply interested in the oddity of a people he’s never seen before. To him there is nothing special about Sakura beyond that, and a way to shake you up. Why else would they be speaking Westron?_ For a moment he had to keep his glower from turning into a totally inappropriate grin—before she’d once again sunk into the daze that had scared them so badly, she’d told the Dwarves how she’d come to be the one cutting them down … both taking down the Spider (which she’d tossed off as ‘a lucky shot’ and none of the Dwarves believed her), and leading the Elves to the Spiders’ nest. _Slid between his legs, indeed!_

Then Thranduil stalked forward, and any urge to grin vanished.

The Elf king hadn’t changed at all in the decades since Thorin had last seen him, though now he was dressed in a silk red and orange robe that shimmered in the torch light, and over long platinum-blond hair a crown of a curved branch with upthrusting spiked shoots around which twined yellow- and red-leaved vines. The last time, the King had been armed and armored with an army at his back. When Thorin’s grandfather had begged for aid for his newly homeless and suffering people.

No, Thorin had no urge to grin at all.

The leader of the Elven scouts stepped forward to offer Orcrist to his father. “They were carrying this. The ... Hobbit” — he nodded toward Sakura — “claimed that Mithrandir now bears Glamdring, discovered at the same time in a Troll hole.”

Thranduil accepted the sword and examined it, his eyebrows lifting. “Indeed, so Mithrandir is playing another game.” He handed Orcrist back to his son and turned to the prisoners, his gaze falling on Thorin. “A game with the lives of my people as tokens.” He stepped forward, and Thorin stepped away from the rest of the Company to meet him.

“Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand, a quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon,” Thranduil mused as he circled Thorin. “I, myself, suspect a more prosaic motive — an attempt at burglary for something of value. You have found a way in. You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule: the King’s Jewel, the Arkenstone. It is precious to you beyond measure.” He stopped, loomed over the Dwarf king. “I understand that, there are gems in the Mountain that I, too, desire — white gems, of pure starlight. I offer you my help.”

Thorin remembered those gems, and the way his grandfather had taunted the Elven king — showing them to him then refusing to even consider negotiations for handing them over. He had been shocked at the time, confused, wondering why Thror would do something so _stupid_ , to so insult a neighboring monarch. After Erebor’s fall he realized it was one of the first signs of Thror’s growing madness. But that was no excuse for what had followed, and he struggled to keep his face expressionless as he responded. “I am listening.”

“I will let you go, if you will but return what is mine.”

“A favor for a favor.”

Yes.” Thranduil placed a hand over his heart and regally inclined his head. “You have my word. One king to another.”

Ignoring Balin’s pleading look, Thorin growled, “I would not trust Thranduil, the Great King, to honor his word should the end of all days be upon us.” Finally losing his fight with the rage that filled him, he shouted, “You lack all honor! I have seen how you treat your friends. We came to you once, starving, homeless, seeking your help. But you turned your back. You turned away from the suffering of my people, the inferno that destroyed us!”

Thranduil blanched at the accusation, then stepped forward and leaned down face to face with Thorin. He snarled, “Do not speak to me of dragon fire! I know its wrath and ruin. I have faced the Great Serpents of the North.” For a moment, the smooth lines of Thranduil’s face wavered, and Thorin’s eyes widened as the skin of the left side of the Elf king’s face seemed to pull away to leave bare strands over exposed teeth clenched in anger, the eye above them a milky white.

But the next moment Thranduil’s face was again unblemished. He straightened and stepped away from the prisoners, returning to his throne and the scout that had told him of Hobbits. Seating himself, he coolly continued, “I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon, but he would not listen. You are just like him. So stay here if you will, and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink in the eyes of an Elf — I am patient, I can wait.” He waved one hand to the scouts. “Take them to the dungeon.”

Thorin turned to go, self-righteously ignoring Balin’s crestfallen expression, only to freeze at the Elf king’s next words: “Except the Hobbit, she will remain. Tauriel, stay so that you may escort her to the dungeon when we are finished.”

He whirled back around, his shouted objection lost in those of the rest of the Dwarves, only for Sakura to yell, “Quiet!” The Dwarves fell silent, and she grinned at them. “Hey, it’s great that you all worry about me, but I’ll be fine. We’ll see each other again in no time.”

Thorin opened his mouth to object to her cavalierly tossing away their concerns, but paused. That grin had a strong impish edge to it ... a grin disturbingly similar to the one that Kili had used to sport when he was a child, and had just pulled a prank that no one knew about yet.... _Our burglar_. The sneakiest member of the Company, not even Nori could match her. He found himself saying, “Of course, if anyone in the Company can take care of himself, it is you.”

“Hey, watch your pronouns!”

Thorin surprised himself with a sharp bark of laughter, and turned away toward the once again open doors through which they had entered.

/\

Tauriel watched Sakura as the Hobbit watched the Dwarves file out on the way to their cells, quietly impressed by her demeanor. With her friends gone she was alone with her captors, beings over twice her height, warriors with millennia of experience, one of them one of the Powers of the West. And yet she was as calm as if she stood in her own home, the only sign of emotion a slight smile.

Then the doors again slammed closed, and the smile vanished from her face as she turned to face Thranduil and spoke in the Quenya of the Noldor she had used in the forest, the language of poetry and ritual that (now that Tauriel wasn’t on patrol of fighting Spiders and not half-focused on her surroundings) seemed so odd in that childlike voice and foreign accent. “So you are the reason that Thorin hates Elves so much.”

The other Elves stiffened, stunned at both the lèse-majesté the Hobbit committed by speaking first and at the raw contempt in her voice.

The king, too, had stiffened, but he forced himself to relax and waved away the statement with a condescending smile. (And Tauriel had to admit, as filthy as she was, the little Hobbit was positively cute ... like an Elfling stamping her feet because her parents wouldn’t let her have her way.) Leaning back in his throne, Thranduil replied, “You know not of what you speak, child. I am a king, and as king my duty lies with my people.”

“Yes, well, if the only place you’re willing to fight is your own front yard, then that is where the fight will be. This time your ‘duty to your people’ left you with a dragon sleeping on your doorstep, so you may get the chance to get reacquainted with dragon fire. And we mayflies might be a mere blink of the eye to you — well, two blinks for Dwarves, I guess — but we remember, and pass those memories on to our children. If a thousand years from now Dwarves are killing Elves in the name of the women and children you abandoned to die in the wilderness ...” She shrugged. “... your people will know who to blame.”

Then her glare abruptly vanished into an impish grin that instantly had Tauriel worried. “Wow, that feels good to get that off my chest. And now that I have ...” She bowed, straightened. “I bid you farewell.”

Before Sakura had finished speaking Tauriel bound toward her, but the tiny redhead spun in place and dove behind one of the torch-bearing tree-carved pillars along the edge of the chasm. Tauriel threw herself forward, caught an outthrust sconce, swung around ... no Hobbit.

Instantly dropping to one knee and with hand braced on the floor, Tauriel leaned over the edge, her Elf-sharp gaze sweeping the shadows covering the bare rock wall below her ... no Hobbit.

As Mirthalorn joined her, she rose to her feet, looking up the pillar, past the torches to the bundle of faux-branches at its top ... no Hobbit. “Mirthalorn, Hobbits can’t fly or become invisible, can they?” Either would explain how Sakura had gotten across the Spider nest and up the tree where her friends had been strung up like so much low-hanging fruit without Tauriel noticing —

“No, they’re masters of stealth and you don’t want to be a bird in their garden when one stoops for a stone, but that’s it,” he replied absentmindedly as his own gaze swept over the pillar, before he dropped to one knee to repeat her own examination of the chasm.

“Then where is she!?”

“I don’t know.” He rose to his feet, and the two scouts nervously turned to face their scowling king as he strode toward them.

/\

As the throne room finally fell silent Sakura relaxed and opened her eyes, then bit back a hiss and wiped her brow as sweat dribbled into her eyes ... moving slowly, to avoid catching the eye of anyone that might have stayed behind to play possum.

She really hadn’t been sure that would work, climbing the pillar as soon as she was out of sight, and drawing the Veil about her. Certainly, it had worked against a distracted Gandalf and Radagast, but these were _Elves_ , able to count the feathers of a soaring raptor ... and more, Elves actually _looking_ for her!

_Well, apparently being able to pick out details at half a mile doesn’t mean your mind can’t be clouded as much as anyone else’s. I hope_. She turned about on the pillar, carefully to make sure her backpack didn't catch on any of the ‘branches’, and peered through the ‘branches’ to look over the dimming throne room — dimming, because with the room empty the torches were guttering out one by one.

Empty.

She slumped, relief washing over her. She’d done it. She’d done it! So now, she just needed to find the dungeons, find where their equipment had been stashed, find more supplies, find a way out other than the front doors (magically locked, as Thranduil had stated when the first search for her had failed — somewhat loudly and in Quenya rather than the Sindarin the other searching Elves had been speaking), find a way to get all of the first tasks to the last task without being caught....

She lifted an arm and sniffed her sleeve, and grimaced. _But first, I need to clean up and wash my clothes. What’s the point of being tucked out of sight if they can_ smell _your presence?_ Sure, the Veil would hide the stench as well, but why make it work harder than it had to? Besides, smells linger. _Let’s, see, I should still have some soap in my pack. For water ..._ Closing her eyes, she held her breath, listened ... and as she’d hoped could barely hear burbling water from the chasm beside her. She shuddered. That water was going to be _cold_.


	22. The Unexpected Help

_Several weeks later:_

Sakura waited until the last hint of sound of the Elven woman that had helped her — helped all of them — in the forest had faded, then allowed her natural weight to return and dropped from the massive roots running along the rocky roof to land soundlessly in front of Kili’s cell. “Kili, I’m ashamed of you, leading that poor woman on like that,” she said primly, waving a finger at him. “What would your mother say, if she caught you flirting like that? You _obviously_ can’t be serious. I mean, she’s so tall and thin, and her skin’s so smooth without muscles on her muscles and she doesn’t have a hint of a beard — she’s so ugly!”

Kili blushed at Sakura’s of what she’d told him, that first morning at Bag End, as snorts and chuckles came from the other cells, but rallied gamely. “Oh, I don’t know, she has a certain … lightness going for her. And a little conversation to break the monotony is never a bad thing.” He shrugged. “It’s all in good fun. And she did give me back my rune stone, for which I am grateful. Mother would have been very upset with me if I’d lost it.”

“Well, don’t go breaking her heart, she’s been nice to us,” Sakura warned, to more soft laughter from the other Dwarves, then strode over to the spot where she could be seen by both Thorin and Balin. “I have good news and bad news,” she announced. “The good news is that I’ve found another way out of here besides the front gates we can’t use. The bad news is that our opportunities to use it are ... scattered, and I still haven’t figured out how to get you out of the cells and down to the cellars.” She already knew where all their gear had been stashed, though she’d been shocked to learn the storeroom it was stashed in was _on the wrong side of the guarded doorway_. At least, the wrong side from the Elves’ point of view — what kind of idiots stored weapons in the same area as the prisoners? _The kind that just don’t deal with prisoners much_.

“The cellars, lass?” Balin asked, and she refocused on the present.

“Yes, the cellars.” She quickly told of the wine cellar she’d found, and the way the empty barrels were sent back downriver to Laketown. She finished with, “That would get us out of here, with our gear, but it would have to be when there’s at least thirteen empty barrels — which from the amount of room at the hatch would be _just_ before they send them back. The timing would be tight, I still haven’t found a way to get my hands on the keys to your cells, and I _really_ don’t want us to have to fight our way down there.” Because as frayed as relations were, between Thranduil’s uncaring arrogance and Thorin’s burning hatred, if anyone died on their way out there would be no going back — the killing would go on for that thousand years she’d prophecied to Thranduil, and longer. And the Dark was rising.

Thorin snarled and punched the wall. “Durin’s Day is almost here!”

Sakura shrugged. “Remember, while it would be nice to use the secret entrance, it doesn’t really matter to me — I can get in either way. So while I don’t doubt you’re bored, we’re not on a schedule.” Abruptly grinning, she glanced slyly at Kili and added, “Should I find you some light reading for entertainment while I keep looking for a way out? It’d be in Quenya and all about some high Elvish romance, I’m sure — just what you need to fuel daydreams about your girlfriend.” There was fresh laughter as Kili blushed again while declaiming any such relationship, but he shrugged with a rueful smile when she looked him in the eye and nodded slightly toward the other Dwarves in silent apology.

Sakura bantered with the Dwarves for a bit, surreptitiously looking over those she could see as she did so and liking what she saw — they seemed to have healed nicely from their trials in Mirkwood and the impromptu surgery they’d been subjected to, healthy enough that escape was feasible.

Unknown to her, the Dwarves that could see her had been returning the favor and also liking what they saw — the cheerful Hobbit that refused to be coddled was back, and they felt their own flagging spirits rise at the sight.

/\

Several twists of the corridor further upward, Tauriel suppressed laughter of her own as she listened to the banter. She had wondered a bit at the prisoners’ continued high spirits she had observed on her occasional visits, and now she knew — they still had hope, thanks to that impressively elusive Hobbit. The Hobbit that had haunted the halls of the Woodland King for weeks now, without once being seen — if it wasn’t for the way food left unattended occasionally vanished (and of course, the slight drift of dust Sakura had disturbed while she was perched almost directly over Tauriel’s head, that had the Elf leaving off her fun with Kili earlier than she’d planned), she would have suspected that Sakura had somehow escaped and gone looking for the Wizard she had mentioned in passing.

_And what happens when Mithrandir arrives looking for his friends?_ She had been present the last time he had visited the Realm, and the war of words between a Wizard absolutely confident in the rightness of his cause and a King arrogant in his position and certain in his responsibilities as he understood them had had everyone else in the room doing their best to make themselves invisible. _Metaphorically, of course, not like that Hobbit seems to be able to do_ , she thought with a wry smile, but a smile that vanished as she again considered that question: what _would_ Mithrandir do, with his friends imprisoned and Thranduil determined to interfere with their Quest — with _Mithrandir’s_ Quest? There was a Dwarven army as near as the Iron Hills, an army that might rouse the Dragon before they were ready. She would have to think about it.

/oOo\

It had been easy enough for Sakura to make her way out of the dungeons, using the twined roots running along the walls to crawl over the heads of the guards at the upper entrance while keeping the Veil wrapped tightly about her. True, she was helped by the way most people simply didn’t look up when keeping watch, but an even bigger help was that there was no door!

_Though that means after we escape the cells and head for the cellars, the chase can catch up with us that much faster_ , she thought as she carefully made her way through the by now familiar overhead paths through the Woodland Realm, on the way to the royal kitchens — only to find, when she arrived, that they were bustling with activity much earlier than they usually did. So, on to her secondary watering hole.

A good half an hour later, and she carefully listened for any hint of movement in the scouts’ storerooms, then when she didn’t hear anything lightly dropped to the floor and dashed in. It was dark, but there was enough light coming from the doorway and Hobbit eyesight, while not up to Elven standards, was better than what she’d had as a Man and she easily made her way around over to the shelved stacks of leaf-wrapped wafers. It wouldn’t be the fresh greens and perhaps some leftover venison that she could have liberated from the kitchens, but she could live with lembas as she had for all the weeks in Mirkwood (not that she remembered them very well).

“A good afternoon to you.”

Sakura froze at the greeting in Quenya, then twisted around just as Tauriel stepped out of the darkness of the next room in. “I hoped I might find you here, don’t go away.” She disappeared back into the other room and Sakura almost bolted, held in place only by her curiosity. Besides, she was safe enough — there had been no other Elves around when she’d made her way to the storerooms, and plenty of nooks and crannies she could use to hide long enough to draw the Veil about her again. And unlike the King’s son Tauriel seemed friendly enough, both in the forest and here in the Realm.

Tauriel appeared again with a small table in her hands much like the one Sakura’s mother had somehow managed to bring with her when she fled Japan (and that her daughters had used for tea parties with their dolls). On the table were a pot and a decanter along with several wooden bowls and cups, and Sakura’s nose twitched at the scent of savory stew wafting toward her. Tauriel said, “This isn’t quite the feast that will grace our tables at the banquet this afternoon, but I thought you might want something better than lembas for the Feast of Starlight.” She set the table down in the middle of the storeroom, sat down crosslegged, and started dishing up two bowls of the stew.

Sakura was strongly tempted to bolt, but in the end knelt across from the scout (up on her toes, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice), produced her own spoon from her backpack before slinging it back onto her shoulders, and dug in after Tauriel had taken several spoonfuls of her own stew—whatever her host was up to, she wasn’t trying to drug her guest.

After a few minutes of respect paid to the _excellent_ stew, Tauriel broke the silence. “You were a bit hard on King Thranduil, you know.”

“What?” Sakura glanced up. “When?”

“In the throne room, when you said that if the only place we were willing to fight was our own land, that is where the fight would happen.” She scraped her bowl clean of one last spoonful, then put it down and rested her hands on her knees. “The truth is that we _are_ fighting that battle on our own land, and have been since the Battle of Dagorlad. Have you heard of it?”

“Yeah,” Sakura mumbled around a mouthful of stew. Blushing, she swallowed and continued, “The big fight of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men against Sauron, under the leadership of Elendil and Gil-Galad. Their victory enabled them to lay siege to Barad-dur.”

“True, but they were far from the only high ones there. Thranduil marched with his father King Oropher in answer to Gil-Galad’s call, and returned with only a third of the army that followed them ... and without his father.”

Sakura stilled, then slowly put down the bowl of suddenly tasteless stew. “A _third?_ ” While her own three years of war had seen more than one mission with a mortality rate that high, that was for a single squad — and an elite squad at that, that was handed the tough jobs. But she’d read her fair share of military history, and for an _entire army_ ... Tauriel nodded, and for the first time in years Sakura unconsciously reverted to her birth tongue. “Oh. My. God.”

Tauriel lifted an eyebrow at the unknown words, but accepted the solemnity with which they were pronounced. “And that wasn’t the end of it. The whole of the forest was once our land, known as the Greenwood to all that lived around it and the merchants that came to pass through on the Old Forest Road. But after those losses, while Lord Elrond in Imladris and Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel in Lothlorien ruled over their people in peace, we found ourselves fighting a neverending war of harassment and ambush, one that we lost — pushed ever north until almost three millennia later we have only this small plot with the rest given over to the corruption that is Mirkwood.”

Sakura stared at her host, mind whirling as she remembered her own war, constantly pricking the enemy at every opportunity but just as constantly giving ground before a relentless enemy. It wouldn’t have been as intense for the Woodland Elves, but still ... “Why didn’t you ask for help?” she asked at last.

“We did.” And we received it as well, at least in the beginning. What is now Dol Guldur was actually built by of Lothlorien’s people, and Lord Elrond sent forces over the Misty Mountains to our aid. But Orcs out of Moria seized Dol Guldur and more Orcs out of Moria kept Lord Celeborn too busy to retake it, and the fracturing of the northern kingdom of Arnor and the rise of Angmar forced Lord Elrond to turn his attention to problems closer to home.”

Sakura shook her head as she thought of the catastrophe, and then another thought struck her, about Elvish society and their lack of sexual dimorphism. “Half of your army at Dagorlad was female, wasn’t it?”

For a moment Tauriel was confused, before understanding dawned. “Yes, it was, but it wouldn’t have mattered if it wasn’t. Elven women will only have children by their husbands.”

“So no children from rape, but it makes it hard to rebuild your numbers after a catastrophe.”

“True.” Tauriel mock-frowned. “So perhaps you might be a little more generous in your feelings about my king, he has had a long, rough time of it.”

“I will. And I suppose I owe him an apology, the next time the opportunity arises. But he may not have the freedom to ignore the larger world, the Dark is rising again.” Sakura picked up the bowl and began eating again. She hadn’t recovered much of her appetite, but it really was excellent stew and who knew when she’d get the chance for real food again? “Were you at Dagorlad?”

“No, I am not so old as that.” Tauriel refilled her bowl and dug into her own stew. “Though I can remember a time when our border ran south of the Old Forest Road, and merchants travelled between East and West freely and without fear.”

Silence fell for a time as the pair finished off the stew, then Tauriel filled the cups with wine from the decanter as Sakura put away her spoon in her backpack and reslung it, and let Sakura take her pick of which cup to accept. Sakura wasn’t anything like a connoisseur, but it was truly excellent wine, as fine in its own way as anything that Bilbo had ever served at Bag End or Elrond at Rivendell. It had a fruity taste and a bite that suggested that she be _very_ careful how much she drank.

After her first sip, she waved the cup toward the ceiling in the direction of the kitchens (or at least, what she thought was the right direction — it was easy to get turned around, in a kingdom of tunnels and caverns and fissures with no straight lines). “From the bustle in the kitchens, it seems you’re going to have quite the party.”

Tauriel smiled around her own sip. “As I said, it is the Feast of Starlight. All light comes from the Eldar, but Wood Elves love best the light of the stars. It is memory, precious and pure.” Then she leaned forward and whispered, “I have walked there sometimes, beyond the forest under the moon of the night. I have seen the world fall away and a white light forever fill the air.”

Sakura’s own nighttime memories were not so happy, creeping up on sentries on moonless nights, with fear of death and, even worse, failure choking her breath. But more recently she had enjoyed the peace of a deep night sentry duty with the Li brothers, an occasional long walk under the stars when returning to Bag End from a visit with the Rangers. And before the War ... “I’ve seen the Northern Lights, like flames from some ancient campfire — red, gold, blue, violet, leaping and dancing in the sky, changing colors, beautiful enough to steal your breath.”

The two fell into companionable silence for a while occasionally sipping from their cups, before Tauriel suddenly giggled. At Sakura’s questioning look, she waved toward the floor. “Not everyone celebrates the Feast of Starlight in the banquet halls. The current captain of the guard and major-domo are so stressed by the preparations for the celebration that it has become a tradition for them to retire to the wine cellar and drink themselves unconscious once the celebration starts — and that takes a _lot_ of wine!”

It was all Sakura could do not to leap up and turn cartwheels in sheer joy at the news — _the keys!_ Instead, she simply remarked, “That bad, huh?”

“Oh, yes,” Tauriel agreed. “The captain of the guard has to send out extra hunting parties to stock our larders and clear out any Spider infestations that might have infiltrated the nearby forest, while the major domo has to keep account of all that comes in, to buy more from Laketown to make up the difference and provide variety. And _both_ men have to choose who will serve at the banquets and stand watch as the rest celebrate — not a popular assignment, I assure you. By the time the feasting starts, both are more than happy to turn command over to their seconds, retire to the wine cellar, and ... relax.”

Sakura murmured, “Wary and watchful all their days that their peoples’ days may be long in the land.” At Tauriel’s questioning look, she added, “A bit of poetry, poorly translated:

“They do not preach that the Valar will rouse them a little before the bolts work loose.  
They do not teach that Their Pity allows them to drop their job whenever they choose.  
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,  
Wary and watchful all their days that their peoples’ days may be long in the land.”

She lifted her cup. “A toast, to those that watch so that others don’t have to.”

Tauriel raised her own glass and repeated, “A toast!” She took a sip, then sighed. “As fun as this has been, I am afraid I must be going. This feast I am one of those unfortunate ‘wary and watchful’s, and must soon take up my post.” She put down her cup and put the lids on the decanter and pot.

Sakura took the moment to _leap_ back, land just outside the entrance to the storeroom, then leaped up to grab the rough stone of the wall over the doorway, close her eyes, and concentrate. _Nothing to see here, nothing of interest, you’re going to be late...._

Cracking her eyes, she looked down as Tauriel stepped out of the storeroom and looked around before shaking her head. The Elf murmured, “She’s the Ghost, all right,” before turning around and going back inside to finish cleaning up.

Sakura began to slowly crawl along the wall, making her way down toward the cellars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poetry is from Rudyard Kipling's "The Sons of Martha," slightly modified.


	23. Barrel Ride

Bilbo drew deep but not gasping breaths as he slowed from a trot to a fast walk beside the lead Ranger and looked around at the scattered copses northeast of Bree that surrounded the Ranger band on their patrol toward the north. (Bilbo had asked that they shift their patrols to where they’d have the best chance of intercepting Sakura upon her return, and once Eradon decided their apprentice had acquired the minimum competence needed he’d arranged to switch early with the Rangers currently patrolling there.)

He had changed a lot since he’d joined the band, spending all his time with them except for the occasional quick dash home — and one extended visit, when he’d needed to appear before a judge to face the Sackville-Bagginses’ claim of mental derangement. (His simple statement that he was giving his betrothed options, what with the public ostracism she would likely face on her return had been enough, Hobbits understood family. Oh, they all still thought he was insane, but _rationally_ insane — and a few caustic comments from Mistress Greenhand about blinkered plow-ponies unable to lift their eyes from the furrow in front of them hadn’t hurt.) Where before he would have been on his knees doing his best not to puke from the effort required for his short legs to keep up with the Rangers’ league-eating stride, now he was only slightly winded.

But needing to move that quickly had its own problems. It wasn’t just because of Hobbits’ natural stealth that the Big Folk didn’t see them if they didn’t wish to be seen, and now that he wasn’t focused on keeping one foot moving ahead of the other and could open himself to the world around him he paled at what he sense. He hissed to the Ranger next to him, “Ohtar, something’s hiding in the grove up ahead!”

“Are you sure?” The taciturn Ranger didn’t bother waiting for an answer, reaching over his shoulder to draw his bow from its leather sheath and bracing it with foot and knee to string it. Bilbo hastily followed suit with shaking hands.

“What’s going on?” Eradon came up alongside Ohtar while Arahad and Ivorwen flanked Bilbo, their bows now strung with arrows knocked and Ivorwen watching mostly behind them.

“Bilbo says there’s something up ahead in the trees.”

Eradon frowned as he searched the grove a few hundred paces ahead. True, the shadows from the sun setting behind them made seeing difficult, but ... “Bilbo, are you sure? I don’t —”

Sudden howls beat on their ears and over a dozen Orcs on Wargs came boiling out of the grove, pounding toward them.

“Never mind, you’re sure.” Even as Eradon spoke the Rangers’ first arrows were flashing toward the raiders and several of the Wargs collapsed, one rider hurled ahead and bouncing once before lying still and the other disappearing under his mount’s bone-crunching bulk as momentum rolled the dying Warg forward. Another Warg spun, snapping at the arrow buried in its shoulder, then sank its teeth into its rider’s hip when the Orc’s leg jostled the arrow’s shaft. The Orc shrieked as he was yanked off its mount’s back and shaken, then spun away as his leg was bitten through.

Bilbo himself waited as the rest of the Warg Pack came closer, even as the Rangers’ second volley soared out and another Warg collapsed while others twisted to snap at arrows buried in shoulder or haunch. As had Sakura before him, he’d learned that a Hobbit’s natural talent for throwing had carried over to archery — and that it needed to, because a bow scaled to a Hobbit simply lacked the punch of those scaled to the Big Folk. And for him it was even worse, as he’d lacked the strength of arm and chest of even the Hobbits that worked the fields (or Sakura, who’d deliberately pushed herself). He was getting better, but ...

He lifted his bow with still trembling hands and his arrow joined the Rangers’ third flight ... and a Warg’s stride hitched, throwing its rider forward to bounce against the top of its head. It twisted and its jaws clamped down around the Orc’s head. It yanked, shook, and the headless body of the Orc spun away, blood spouting from the ragged neck stump, while the whining Warg bit at Bilbo’s arrow buried in a front paw.

Bilbo felt his gorge rise at the sight and fought to keep it down as he tried to draw another arrow from his quiver with fingers shaking even worse than before. The surviving Orcs were almost upon them —

Three figures on horseback trotted out of another copse off to the right, their own bows raised, and more arrows hammered into the Warg Riders, spilling still more from the backs of their mounts. That was finally too much for the Orcs and the less than half that survived broke and scattered, racing away to the west toward the marshes or north the way they’d come, fresh arrows spilling several more from the back of their Wargs. The few dismounted Orcs hobbled after them until fresh arrows hammered into their backs, then two of the riders galloped after the retreating Orcs while one cantered over to the Rangers.

Bilbo was crouched over, hands on his knees with his bow lying at his feet as he gasped for air, trying to keep his last meal down. He looked up as the rider neared, and his eyes widened at the sight of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen — an Elf with the dark hair of the half-blood, and from their reaction one known by the Rangers. Or at least known _to_ the Rangers; Bilbo remembered Ivorwen mentioning her meeting with Lord Elrond’s daughter when she took word of his fiancée’s journey to Rivendell, but the other Rangers had never met her.

Ivorwen bowed respectfully as the males gaped, and said in the Quenya that Bilbo had been learning, “My lady, I’m surprised to find you ... out here.” Smiling slyly, she added, “Does your father know?”

Arwen grimaced. “No, he hasn’t returned yet from an unexpected journey to Lothlorien.” She shrugged as she unstrung her bow. “It doesn’t matter; it is every Elf’s right to learn what skills and trades she wishes, if she can find teachers. And my brothers are _fine_ teachers.”

“I am sure they are. You still have much to learn, though, Lady Arwen,” Eradon commented. He’d shaken himself free from his shock at the Elf princess’s presence and was scanning the scattered patches of trees around them. “Just because we can’t see any more Orcs doesn’t mean they aren’t out there.”

Arwen blushed and hastily restrung her bow as Bilbo snatched up his own bow and nocked a fresh arrow. “Leave off the ‘my ladys’ for Imladris,” she ordered as her own gaze swept across the countryside, pausing for a moment on her returning brothers then resuming her sweep. After awhile, she asked, “Do you believe there are more Orcs out there?”

“No, I don’t — those Orcs were reckless even for their kind, I doubt any of them held back from the charge or maneuvered to take us from the side or back. Still, just because it is unlikely doesn’t mean it isn’t so.”

One of the two returning Elves spoke up as they joined the Rangers. “Yes, they did seem to be remarkably incompetent, even for Orcs, didn’t they? The other two Packs we’ve encountered in the past week were bad enough, but _these_ — normally even Orcs should know better than to simply charge straight at four Rangers with their bows ready over such a distance.” As his brother dismounted, he turned in his saddle to look back over the line of corpses and writhing wounded of both Orcs and Wargs. “They didn’t have near the numbers needed to overrun you.”

“No, they didn’t, did they? One has to wonder where all the _competent_ Orcs went.” Eradon paused and frowned thoughtfully for a moment before grinning up at the Elf. “Still, Elrohir, you were a pleasant surprise — there would have been enough to make things dicey if you hadn’t shown up.” His eyes cut over to Bilbo for a moment, then back to Elrohir before he turned to clasp arms with the other Elf. “Bilbo, be known to Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Lord Elrond and good friends and allies, and their sister leave-the-my-ladys-at-Imladris Arwen.”

“Bilbo?” Arwen had relaxed her vigil with her brothers’ arrival, and now she abandoned it entirely to focus on the Hobbit. “Bilbo Baggins? Betrothed to Sakura Piper?”

“Wh-why yes, my ... ah, yes, I am,” Bilbo managed to stutter out, blushing under the beautiful Elf’s attention. Then the meaning of her _second_ question caught up with him, and with no stutter at all he demanded, “You know her? You met her? How is she?”

“I am afraid I don’t know how she is, only how she was — it has been months since I spent a week in her company at Imladris.” Arwen smiled gently when Bilbo’s face fell. “But she was in fine health when she left, with stout companions, I have no doubt she is doing fine. And I am happy to meet the betrothed that she praised so highly.”

Bilbo’s eyes fell to his hair-covered feet, suddenly feeling much younger than his almost fifty years.. “I’m nothing special,” he muttered, “not like she is, though I’m trying.”

Fingers underneath his chin pushed his head up to find Arwen now kneeling in front of him, their eyes almost level. She shook her head. “She told me you gave her a home and a future when no one else could, that you are everything to her. Do not ever doubt it.”

Bilbo’s blush deepened, but her gaze remained steady and he finally nodded. “I won’t.” Then casting about for something different to talk about, he asked, “And just why are you out here, my ... Arwen?”

Arwen’s gentle smile turned impish. “Oh, for much the same reason as you, I suspect. I met a too-young, fiery-haired Hobbit, and I can never look at the world and my place in it the same way again.” She glanced up, looking at the Rangers talking with her brothers (they had moved a few paces away and were studiously ignoring the pair). From what she had been overhearing while talking to Bilbo about the incompetent Orcs they had just fought — after the equally incompetent ones she and her brothers had already encountered (it had been an exciting first patrol out of Imladris for her, if not for her brothers) — and where the _competent_ ones might be ... she sighed. “But I suspect _my_ little excursion, at least, is at an end. Come on, let’s give my brothers the chance to tell me the bad news.”

/oOo\

Sakura silently ghosted down the empty tunnel toward the wine cellar, wincing at the occasional jangle and thump from behind her as the thirteen Dwarves a score of paces behind _tried_ to sneak along in her wake. _Be fair,_ Nori _can be quiet enough. Of course, he’s bringing up the rear making sure we don’t get jumped from behind_.

She paused as the opening of another tunnel came up and peeked around the edge. (Her Veil might cover her, but it wouldn’t _always_ work.) No one was there, and she breathed another sigh of relief even as the itch between her shoulder blades grew stronger — things were going _too_ well. She had checked all the corridors and branch-offs on her first trip down into the cellars for the keys, checking for any ambushers — just in case her conversation with Tauriel had a little too fortuitous — but had found no one. Then she’d checked again on the way back. And she was checking again now, as much as their speed allowed. (She didn’t think going slower would make the Dwarves any less noisy, and the longer it took the more chance they’d stumble across someone even if it wasn’t a trap.) _At least we’re in the tunnels now, and not on any more of those swooping pathways upstairs. Those were a nightmare._ She winced again when a particularly loud clank echoed down the tunnel. _More of a nightmare_. At least the Elves would have already moved all the wine they needed for the feasting closer to the banquet halls — so long as they didn’t run short and send someone down for more....

She pushed the unwelcome thought away as she eased her way around a bend and the entrance to one of the stairs down to the wine cellars came into view. They’d arrived.

/\

As the Dwarves quietly argued over who got which empty barrel in the stack in the middle of the room, ready to roll into the river when the trap door was released, Sakura quickly examined the bow the Rangers had given her for cracks. She hadn’t had any need for it since their encounter with the Orcs west of Rivendell, but for most of that time she’d been rather ... out of it ... and unable to give the bow the proper care it needed. But from what little time she had for a quick check, it seemed one of the Dwarves had filled in for her. She would have to find out who and thank him. _Later_.

Satisfied for the moment, she handed the bow to Ori. “Take good care of that, now, and don’t go stepping on my pack of lembas. We may all need that before this is done.”

The young scribe blushed and stammered that he would, and she gave him an encouraging smile. The youngest of the Dwarves might have more years than her but she had trouble not seeing him as one of the older children that haunted the fringes of her story times at the market, pretending not to care while hanging on every word.

“Enough! Grab a barrel and get in.” Thorin’s stern almost-shout cut through the bickering, and Sakura sighed with relief even as she glanced to the side at the two Elves collapsed over their cups at a table in a nearby cubbyhole, making sure Thorin’s voice hadn’t disturbed them. It had been a long wait, listening to the pair exchange toasts and stories of their recent trials and speculate on who would have the ‘honor’ the next year, until the wine had _finally_ overcome them and she had been able to grab the keys and make her way back up to the Dwarves’ cells; then there’d been the time it had taken to convince Thorin that her plan was the only way out (admittedly brief, and he’d had the oddest smile on his face), and sort out their packs and weapons (within a few yards of where the guards would normally have been standing, if they hadn’t been released for the celebration) — by now the afternoon had to be waning and it couldn’t be long until the prisoners’ dinner would be delivered.

As the Dwarves hastily followed their king’s order, Sakura double-checked that her pistol was strapped into its holster on her hip, her Bowie knife firm in its sheath on her other hip, reached over her shoulder to tug lightly on Sting to ensure that its strap was in place ... she was ready. She walked over to the lever that would release the trap door.

Thorin, the last Dwarf to climb into his barrel, paused halfway in. “Sakura, what about you?”

Sakura waved off his concern. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you.”

Balin twisted around in his barrel to face her, concerned. “But lassie, what about your fear of deep water?”

“ ‘Swim like a fish’, remember? I’ll be fine.” Sakura turned to reach for the lever, and froze for a moment at the sight of legs appearing on what she could see of the stairs. _Oh, crap!_ She yanked the lever down, held it as the trap door swung downward and the barrels began to rumble toward the drop into the rushing sluice leading to the river. Shouts came from the stairs but she held the lever down and waited … waited … darted away as the last of the barrels passed the center point of the door, hoping that all the weight on one side of the door was enough to hold it down, that she was fast enough to catch up. (There was no way _she_ weighed more than the counterbalance.)

Then the last barrel rolled off the end of the trap door with her a few paces behind it and the door snapped up, catapulting the flailing Hobbit shrieking into the air over the barrels filling the river, almost hitting the crudely carved rock of the ceiling before she slapped down onto the rushing water just past the first barrels, knocking the breath out of her lungs even as she went under. She clawed at the water, gasped for air when her head broke the surface, choked because she’d opened her mouth just a _little_ too early, and then a hand grasped the back of her leathers and she was hauled up so she could grab the edge of a barrel.

“ ‘Swim like a fish’, you said, lass?” It was Gloin, one of the most quiet of the Dwarves, though he’d shown her sketches of his wife and son that he kept in a broach — she hoped he had it tucked away somewhere waterproof, after the drop into the sluice the barrel he was floating in had to be full of more than him and his pack. But as soaked as he was, he was grinning down at her.

“I was startled,” Sakura retorted, then raised her voice as the current swept them out into the open air outside the caverns. “Thorin, they have to know we’re escaping! Someone was coming down the stairs just as we went out the door.”

From behind her and Gloin, Thorin spat out something in Khudzul that she assumed was a curse, then shouted out, “Everyone, help the current speed you along!”

A horn sounded behind them. Sakura had her doubts that splashing their hands in the water was going to help much, but if it made them feel like they were doing something— Then the rushing current swept them around a bend and a small waterfall came into view where the sluice emptied into the river ... a (presumably) small waterfall with a bridge built across it and a grate underneath, one with its two halves swung open at the moment. But an Elf wearing plate armor like she’d seen on the statues at Rivendell and posted at the front entrance and the doorway to the king’s chambers in the Woodland Realm rushed toward it. Other Elves armored the same took up positions along the sluice’s bank with swords drawn.

Then the Elf reached a long, wooden lever at one end of the stone bridge above the open grill. He yanked down on the lever, adding his weight to it, and the two halves of the grill slowly closed against the water’s force, clanking shut just as Gloin’s barrel with Sakura still clinging to it swept under the bridge and thunked into the grate.

Other barrels piled in behind them, threatening to pin Sakura against the grate until she managed to pull herself up on top and clamber across them out from under the bridge, repeating a litany of her own swear words in her mind as she went. (No way was she doing that out loud, she’d shock the Dwarves speechless.) Once out in the open again, she stood up, balanced on the rims of Fili and Kili’s barrels, and looked around. Something else she couldn’t see was out there, something was _wrong_....

But she couldn’t see anything but the armored Elves lining the bank and spaced along the bridge with swords drawn, one walking along the top of the bridge past the others toward stairs down to the sluice’s bank, and that was wrong enough. Her hand dropped to her holster, to find it still snapped closed. She could do it ... she could shoot them free, the sound of the shots alone would probably be enough to stun the Elves immobile, at least long enough for her to leap over the wounded and corpses of those between her and the lever that would open the grate.

She didn’t want to do it. Beyond what she’d told Thranduil when she’d berated him in his own throne room about a thousand-year feud, she’d been living among these people for weeks and in spite of their ... insularity ... they were _good_ people. But while she would have no problem escaping into the forest, there was no way the Dwarves could follow her. And they’d never get another chance —

The one walking along the top of the bridge had just reached the stairs when he stumbled and fell, bounced and rolled clattering, and went into the river within a few feet of Sakura. Without thinking she dove in after him, caught his arm just before the current swept her back towards the barrels. It wasn’t _that_ deep in the sluice, and she shifted around under him as her lungs began to burn, fed Strength into her legs and _pushed_ , _lifted_ so he raised out of the water and flopped onto the tiny platform at the foot of the stairs, and pulled herself out after him as she gasped for air. She turned him over, to check for breathing.

He was dead. She stared at the sightless eyes gazing at the sky, stunned, and only then realized that the air was full of shouts and screams, both in clear Elvish and deep Dwarvish voices — and harsh, guttural voices like she’d heard from the Orcs of the Misty Mountains. Twisting frantically around, there were Orcs everywhere she looked, cutting down the last of the Elvish guards, throwing themselves at the Dwarves as her friends beat them off as best they could with axes, swords, hammer and even as arrows thudded into their barrels ... and several Orcs on the stone bridge between her and the lever to the gate, another walking down the stairs toward her lazily swinging his sword.

Even as fresh Elves, these wearing the brown and green leathers of the Scouts, poured out of the surrounding forest and slammed into the Orcs swarming the banks, Sakura unsnapped the flap holding her pistol in its holster and yanked it out.

The Orc just barked out a harsh laugh, then to her shock spoke in guttural Westron: “So, the tiny thing is still trotting along in the Dwarf scum’s wake, trying to pretend to be a warrior. Bolg will reward me well for dealing with you after getting in his way last time. And what are you going to do with such a funny little club?”

“This.” Sakura lifted the gun with both hands, breathed a quick prayer that the barrel wasn’t clogged after her adventures in the water, carefully fed Strength into arms and shoulders, and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot thundered across the battlefield, and for a moment all fighting ceased as Orc, Dwarf and Elf turned to stare at the tiny Hobbit and the Orc she faced. The recoil had yanked her hands up over her head and spun her around, but the round had hammered into the Orc’s gut and blown gore out his back. He stumbled backwards as Sakura recovered, his heels caught on a stair and spilled him back onto the stairs before rolling downward, and Sakura leaped over the dying body and raced up the stairs to the bridge.

By the time she reached the top the fighting had resumed, and more Orcs were charging toward her. She braced herself, fired again. Her shot hammered into the meat of the Orc’s left leg and he staggered forward. She dodged to the side as his clumsy downward stroke struck sparks from stone, then she slipped between him and the wall, braced herself and _pushed_. He stumbled to the side and fell bellowing toward the Dwarves in their barrels below them as her _third_ shot caught the Orc behind him right between the eyes and spattered the Orc behind _him_ with bits of white bone and gray brain matter ... and this time the recoil flung up the pistol to smash between _her_ eyes. She staggered back, barely staying on her feet as stars filled her vision and an arrow flashed through where she had been standing an instant before to bounce off the bridge’s outer wall and go pinwheeling away.

The last Orc on the bridge had hesitated for a moment to wipe blood and brains out of his eyes, and now he barked laughter and started forward again only for her fourth and last shot to hammer into his shoulder, shredding it and spinning him around. Unfortunately it was the _wrong_ shoulder, and he recovered and raised his sword with his uncrippled arm only for the hurled pistol to smack him between the eyes. He stumbled back again as the pistol bounced away off the top of the wall and splashed into the river beyond the bridge, and then Sakura was on him with Sting drawn. A single slash and he dropped his sword to clutch at his spurting throat before she shoved him out of the way and he fell toward the Dwarves in their barrels below while she raced across the bridge to the lever.

Once there she resheathed Sting (wincing at the thought of what it would take to clean the blood out of the scabbard), crouched underneath the lever, pushed up ... and as she’d feared the lever didn’t budge. _Right, let’s be careful, tearing a tendon right now would be_ really _bad_. For a moment her mind flashed back to the Elf she’d lifted out of the sluice without even thinking about it and winced at the risk she’d run, but she shook it off and took a deep breath, _carefully_ fed Strength into her legs and back, and straightened. The lever rose with her, and sudden triumphant Dwarven shouts followed by screams rang out.

Running to the wall, she pulled herself up and peeked over it, and had to laugh even as her blood ran cold. Beyond the gate was a short waterfall, and the freed barrels were dropping over it one and two at a time ... and into the swift-running water of the last of the sluice down to the equally turbulent river beyond.

She counted the barrels with Dwarves sticking out of them already reaching the river, back along the sluice, caught the last few sweeping over the waterfall beneath her.... _Come on, Sakura, it’s time_.

She leaped up on top of the wall, hesitated for a brief moment, then hurled herself off in a graceful dive into the water below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting for this chapter for a _long_ time. The scene where Sakura empties her pistol before beaning another Orc between the eyes with it was perhaps the first _big_ divergence between my imaginings and Araceil's magnificent story, and told me something of the person that would be the Unexpected Hobbit — it had to be someone that would actually have a pistol on her when she arrived in Middle Earth, and have the skill to use it while still being young enough for the age I want for the possible sequel.
> 
> Oh, and where Sakura gets flipped into the sluice by the closing trap door, that's purely Araceil, too good to leave out.


	24. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to correct a minor continuity error last chapter. When I wrote up Sakura’s charge to the lever to reopen the gate, I made sure to limit the number of shots to the number of bullets she had left back at Bag End, when Kili caught her cleaning her gun in a less than totally clothed state — but forgot the Spider that almost got her, that she killed with a single shot. Oops.

_A few minutes earlier:_

Even as Tauriel raced through the forest toward the river gate in answer to the horn’s call, a litany of curses was rolling through her mind — the rest of her patrol might be wondering what the summons was about but _she_ knew, and cursed the circumstances that had delayed the Dwarves’ escape. But maybe the horn’s call had been just a few moments too late ... it would mean a chase along the bank to beat the Dwarves to the collection point —

Then she reached the edge of the forest along the sluice, and slammed to a stop at the sight of _Orcs_ coming over the wall along the bridge, smashing into the armored Elf guards along the bank, throwing themselves at the Dwarves in their barrels as arrows rained in ... the Dwarves! _Where’s Sakura!?_

She absentmindedly drew and released, ignored the Orc across the river that fell back with her arrow between his eyes as she searched for flame-red hair ... then gaped again as the body of an armored Elf pushed up out of the sluice’s water and flopped onto the tiny landing next to the gate, followed by a gasping, bedraggled Hobbit.

Sakura rolled over the limp body, checking for life, and Tauriel was distracted for a moment as she caught sight of more Orcs charging down the bank towards the tiny figure. For a few moments Tauriel’s hands were busy flashing between quiver and bowstring, spilling Orc after Orc to roll into the river.

Then the charge was gone, and she refocused on Sakura again just in time to see the Hobbit pull the odd club she’d carried in the shaped pouch on her hip, lift it gripped in both hands to point at the Orc ambling toward her ... Tauriel’s drawn bowstring brushed her ear as she hastily aimed....

The thunderclap that silenced the clamor of the battle sent her arrow flashing past the Orc to vanish into the forest, and as one person every Orc and Elf Tauriel could see turned to stare at the tiny figure leaping over the Orc she’d just killed somehow, rolling down the stairs toward her. Even as Sakura raced up to the bridge, an Elf at the far end of the bridge whipped back around to face her still-stunned foe and slammed her dagger up under the Orc’s jaw, through its mouth and into its brain. As the Orc dropped to lie twitching, Inelsil glanced over her shoulder to find the Orcs on bridge running away from her, then backed up to take position at the end of the bridge, turned slightly so she could see along the bridge out of the corner of her eye. There would be no more Orcs attacking Sakura and the Dwarves from _that_ direction.

But that meant that the Orcs running away from Inelsil were running _toward_ Sakura. Tauriel drew her bow, aimed ... a _second_ thunderclap overwhelmed the screams and skirling steel of the renewed battle. Tauriel’s target stumbled forward toward Sakura, and the Scout switched to the Orc right behind the first, her arrow piercing its temple and sending it collapsing over the low wall and into the sluice beyond.

A third thunderclap, and this time Tauriel caught a glimpse of smoke or flame or _something_ jet from the end of the tiny club in Sakura’s hands — a club that swung up to smack the Hobbit in the face, sending her staggering back even as the Orc she’d pointed it at dropped bonelessly to the bridge then slid off into the sluice ... and an arrow flashed through the space where Sakura had stood to hit the wall and spin away.

Tauriel whirled around, her gaze searching along the track that arrow must have followed — there! The largest Orc she had seen that day had just nocked another arrow, was drawing it back as it lifted its bow to aim at Sakura. Tauriel hastily raised her bow and released, her arrow pinning the Orc’s hand to the bow and knocking both aside, sending the arrow who knew where. The Orc whirled toward her, shaking its hand to try and dislodge the arrow pinning it to the bow while it drew a sword with the other ... a _fourth_ thunderclap ... and her next arrow caught it between the eyes and dropped it without a sound. (That she could hear, anyway ... the successive blasts might have affected her sensitive hearing, she couldn’t imagine what it must be like for the Elves even closer.)

She knocked another arrow as she turned her attention back to Sakura, just in time to see her push the last living Orc on the bridge off into the water and run toward the lever to the gate. Tauriel hastily looked away, searching the banks for more bow-armed Orcs paying attention to the Hobbit — none she could see, though there were any number of bows lying where they’d been discarded by the Orcs when the Scouts had come charging out of the forest.

A triumphant roar from the Dwarves followed by frightened screams yanked her attention back to the bridge, just in time to see the last of the Dwarf-filled barrels vanish under the bridge as they went over the small waterfall into the rapids beyond — and Sakura leaped to the top of the bridge’s low wall and threw herself over the edge after them, Inelsil’s hasty attempt to catch her grabbing nothing but air.

A meaty thunk and the rustle of a body hitting the leaf-strewn ground came from behind Tauriel, and she spun around to find Legolas standing over the headless corpse of an Orc, Orcrist in one hand. He looked around, but with the escape of the Dwarves what Orcs were left had broken, scattering into the forest with the surviving Scouts on their heels. Refocusing on Tauriel, he said, “That is the second time I have had to save your life because you were too focused on the Hobbit to pay attention to what was happening around you.”

Tauriel blushed at the sternly delivered, if mild, rebuke. “Yes, it is, you have my thanks. I will do better.” She looked over the bloody battlefield, then when she couldn’t find any threats refocused on the bridge and the bodies on it. “Shall we take a closer look at her work once we’ve checked the wounded?”

Legolas also looked over the battlefield, and nodded. “Yes, I too am curious.” He unhooked his horn from his belt and lifted it to his mouth, and the call to regroup rang out. At Tauriel’s questioning look, he said, “The surviving Orcs will provide good hunting — later, when the celebration is over and we have more people. For now, let us see to our own.”

/\

By the time the Elven wounded had been seen to and those Orcs too badly wounded to flee given the final stroke, Tauriel’s mood had turned bleak. Normally, except for the youngest of Elves only the best of the Orcs were a match for a trained Elf, but the guards had been distracted by the Dwarves escaping — because _she_ had told them the way out. And so those guards had been looking the wrong way when the Orcs attacked, and died for it. Every last one of them. Those deaths might not be her fault, there hadn’t been the least hint of any enemies around, but she was responsible.

Now she knelt alongside Legolas on the bridge, staring in shock at the corpse of one of the Orcs Sakura had killed. More specifically, at the huge hole in the back of its skull: brains and bone blown away by something forcing its way _out_. The corresponding hole between the Orc’s eyes where that something had gone _in_ was so small that perhaps her smallest finger would have fit.

Legolas said, “Well, now we know what made that sound in the forest, that drew our attention to the Dwarves.”

“What kind of weapon _does_ that?” Tauriel whispered.

“One that the Ghost carried around with her the entire time she haunted our halls,” Legolas replied. “Perhaps it is a good thing that we never found her, your new pet had a potent sting.”

“She’s not my pet,” Tauriel disagreed as they rose to their feet and strode along the bridge toward the stairs where Sakura had first confronted an Orc. “What do you mean, ‘had’?”

“You didn’t see? She threw her club at the last Orc she killed. After it bounced off its head, it went over the wall and into the water.”

“Oh.” Tauriel paused to look over the wall at the turbulent current pouring down toward the river. There’d be no retrieving the club without diverting the sluice’s flow, and that water was from an underground river and the main source of water for the Woodland Realm. No, King Thranduil wouldn’t allow that supply to be interfered with just to retrieve a curiosity.

She hurried down the stairs to stand over Legolas as he knelt by the first Orc Sakura had killed, it's corpse now sprawled across that of one of the armored guards on the lower landing — Mirenthir, she would never have to wonder again if he was really that obtuse or secretly laughing at her behind his confused expression.

“Like the first one.” At Legolas’s quiet words, Tauriel tore her eyes away from Mirenthir’s unblinking eyes to the dead Orc. Legolas had pushed up the rusted, tattered scale mail shirt front it was wearing to show a blood-red dot on its stomach, now he twisted to body to show a fist-sized hole in its back. “And look at this.” He turned the body back over and pulled down the scale mail, pointed out one of the scales with a hole punched through it, a scale that might hang over the tiny hole in the Orc’s stomach. “That ‘club’ of hers must have somehow thrown something like a slinger’s slug, hard enough to punch right through. Perhaps it is just as well that she threw away the club, she might not be as ... friendly ... if we meet again.”

Tauriel knelt and shoved the Orc corpse aside and gently turned over Mirenthir’s body. As expected she found the broken stub of an Orc arrow in his back, punched through the plate armor — Orc bows might be ill-made, with equally crude arrows hopelessly inaccurate at a distance, but they were powerful.

She shook her head. “ ‘Friendly’? When Mirenthir was shot he went into the water, and Sakura must have dived in after him. Just as we arrived I saw her push his body up onto the landing and pull herself out.”

“She did?” Legolas ran his eyes along Mirenthir’s fully-armored body then leaned over to look down into the water, crystal clear to the bottom almost two paces down. It would be well over Sakura’s head. “That is no minor feat, even with the water’s help Mirenthir would be a heavy burden for such a tiny creature. She is stronger than she seems.”

With an exasperated sigh, Tauriel replied, “Yes, and she dove into water deep enough to drown her to rescue a complete stranger, one that was interfering with her companions’ escape. I would say she is ‘friendly’ enough.”

Legolas rose to his feet and stared down at the two bodies — one the Hobbit had killed, and one she’d tried to save. “Perhaps you are right.” He looked around at the parties collecting the corpses. “But we have other things to occupy us for now. Let us finish gathering our dead to be made one with the trees and the Orcs for burning, then organize patrols to hunt down the survivors.”

Tauriel swept her gaze across the corpses still scattered along the banks of the sluice and did her best to keep her face calm as the guilt again hammered into her. “Right.”

/oOo\

The barrel bumped against the river bottom paces away from the rocky bank, and Sakura pulled herself up and over the rim (knocking loose one of the arrows still stuck in the barrel) and into the water with a splash and promptly was over her head before clawing to the surface and swimming for shore. She had been able to stave off the usual after-battle collapse for over an hour, now, by keeping herself tense and focused on the river banks looking for pursuing Orcs, but she hadn’t seen any and it had gotten harder and harder to stave off the inevitable post-combat crash.

But now she didn’t have to, and as soon as she had staggered out of the water she fell to her hands and knees vomited up what was left of the lembas she’d eaten while waiting for the captain of the guard and the major-domo to drink themselves insensible.

She only realized she was crying when Balin knelt by her side. “Little One, what’s wrong?”

She leaned back, thoughts racing as she wiped her lips, then accepted a water bottle to wash the taste out of her mouth — there was no way she was going to admit how much combat sickened her. Then she had to keep from smiling as the perfect excuse came to mind. _Cover one weakness with another_. Handing the water bottle back and wiping at the tear tracks on her cheeks, she said, “ _Please_ tell me we’re done with deep water.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Sakura looked up at the sound of Thorin’s voice, then looked around at the rest of the worried Dwarves gathering around and blushed. “Don’t just stand there, get our gear out of the barrels before they float away! I’m fine.”

Thorin chuckled and waved off the rest of the Dwarves. “Do as she says.” The Dwarves scattered toward the barrels washed up along the bank (and chased after a few that, weight lightened, were drifting back into the river), and Thorin leaned over and quietly asked, “You are sure you’re all right?”

“Yes! Well....” Sakura paused to pat herself down, do a few quick stretches — it appeared her use of her Strength lifting the Elf out of the river and then to push up the lever opening the gate hadn’t stretched or strained anything. This time. “Yes, I’m fine. I just need to eat some lembas, replace what I just lost.” Grudgingly, she added, “Thank you.”

/\

As it turned out, that was something of a problem. Everyone had done their best to waterproof the more perishable of their supplies, but their best simply hadn’t been very good — _especially_ the lembas. Some of the leaf-wrapped biscuits toward the middle of the pack had come out all right, but those wafers toward the outside were flimsy or even mushy, enough that Sakura doubted they would keep. And the outermost wafers were so much mush inside their leaf wrappings. (What cram was left, on the other hand, was almost impervious to a mild soaking ... a thought that was enough to make Sakura shudder.)

So Sakura sat on one of the rocks that were scattered along the bank, choking down what she could of the lembas-mush from her bowl (if it wasn’t going to keep, there was no point letting it go to waste) as some of the Dwarves spread out the soaked clothing from their packs across the rocky shore, along with Fili’s, Kili’s and her wet bowstrings, while the rest stood guard. There wasn’t all that much time before the sun would sink behind the trees along the riverbank several hundred paces upstream where the river curved north. But the rocks were warm from spending most of the day in the sun, and damp would be better than soaked when the clothes were repacked and they moved on — hopefully before the Orcs and Elves finished dealing with each other, and the winners came looking for the Company that had brought them together. She could not _believe_ that the Orcs that had caught up with them just after their escape from the warrens in the Misty Mountains had somehow pursued them all the way through Mirkwood. And to be waiting when they escaped Thranduil’s halls, how did they _manage_ it?

Behind her a branch snapped and she shot to her feet, dropping the bowl and spoon and reaching over her shoulder for Sting and for the knife on her belt only to pause at the sight of a tall Man standing at the edge of the forest, dressed much as her Ranger friends and with bow in hand and arrow nocked, but pointed at the ground.

Behind her she could hear the Dwarves reacting, then the Man was in motion, bow lifting and arrow released in one smooth move. Sakura finished drawing Sting and knife even as she turned (using the shift to hide from the Man how she flipped the knife to catch it by the blade, for throwing), just in time to see a stunned Kili with an upraised hand and the rock he had held arcing into the river. She turned back to find the Man nocking another arrow. But the arrow was again pointed toward the ground, even though she caught how his eyes lingered for a moment on the knife in her hand and how she was holding it by the blade rather than the handle. Not immediately hostile, then.

Apparently, at least some of the Dwarves had come to the same conclusion because Balin slowly stepped past her, empty hands stretched wide. “Greetings. I am Balin. Would you be from Laketown?”

The bowman considered the white-bearded Dwarf for a few moments, when his glaze wasn’t glancing over the rest of the party. “I would. I am Bard.”

“We are from the Blue Mountains, west of Rivendell, travelling to the Iron Hills. Would you be able to lead us to Laketown? We will pay you well.”

Bard’s gaze swept across the Dwarves again, lingering for a moment on Sakura and again on the barrels. He shook his head. “From the Blue Mountains? Such visitors as those Laketown has come from the south, from the Old Forest Road and up the River Running. No, I don’t know what business you had with the Elves, but I don’t think it ended well. And since much of the wealth of Laketown comes from our trade with the Woodland Realm, you will not find a warm welcome there.”

“Elves?” Balin waved toward the closest barrel, and the arrows protruding from it. Pulling one out, he turned to walk back toward Bard while holding the arrow up for inspection. “Does this arrow look like Elvish make? We were ambushed by Goblins while crossing the Misty Mountains, and when we were pursued a local woodsman showed us the Elven path through Mirkwood, that the Goblins cannot use. But they must have circled around, because they ambushed us again just this side of the Woodland Realm. We were fortunate that they were ambushed in turn by Elves, and we escaped in the chaos. If there are any Goblin survivors, we would prefer not to be here when they catch up with us yet again.”

Bard looked over the Dwarves again, then cautiously approached Balin and examined the arrow the advisor held before looking past Balin at the other arrows stuck in the barrels. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll take you to Laketown. I have a barge a little ways downstream, help me push the barrels out into the current so they’ll drift down that way, and we can be there by nightfall.”


	25. A Laketown Respite

Ignoring the dank, misty swamp the river had been flowing through since leaving the forest, Sakura huddled in the middle of the barge by its single mast between a concerned Fili and Kili, doing her best to ignore the deep river on both sides and the nauseating smell of fish that permeated the wood she sat on. She just knew that stench was going to haunt her dreams that night, along with the way the river had tossed her about while she fought to occasionally get her head above water to snatch a breath of air, to keep her feet forward to cushion the impact with any rocks she hit before Bifur had finally managed to grab her and haul her into his barrel (almost spilling himself out into the river in the process). If she was _really_ unlucky, the stench would get mixed up with the memory of when she almost drowned as a child.

 _At least that would be better than dreams of brains blowing out the back of people’s skulls, the light vanishing from their eyes_. Pushing away the morbid thought, she looked around for a distraction. Other than the Li brothers, the Dwarves were huddled at the front, beyond the barrels they had helped load onto the barge, and she had been catching the occasional mutter — apparently, there was some disagreement over finances. Nothing for her to contribute there and the half-submerged trees dripping with moss were hardly inviting, so she twisted to look back at Bard, steering at the barge’s rear. When he glanced at her, she waved toward the deer carcasses between them. “I thought you were up here to pick up the barrels.”

“I am, but there isn’t a set time for the barrels to be sent downstream.” Bard shrugged. “I’m a fine archer, so I come up early and spend a few days hunting. The pay for collecting the barrels isn’t much, but the extra from selling venison to people tired of fish and bread makes it worth it.”

Sakura shuddered. “I’d think so! I’m glad we’ll have a choice.”

Bard’s gaze shifted to the Dwarves seated at the bow, then back to Sakura. “Not much of one, the price of venison is high — normally only the Master of Lake-town and his hangers-on can afford it.”

Sakura winced even as Gloin’s voice rose above the rest: “No! I’ve delved deep into my family’s savings to help pay for this, I’ll not be trapped —”

The voice chopped off, and Sakura whipped around to see the Dwarves slowly rising to their feet in reverent silence, staring to the north. She followed their gaze, and her own eyes widened. The river’s current had swept the barge out of the swamp and its thinning mist and into the lake, and in the fading evening light she could see a solitary snow-peaked mountain worthy of the Rockies towering into the sky. She whispered, “Erebor.”

The silence was broken by the clinking of coins as Gloin handed a leather pouch to Balin. “Take it.” Then the view was broken up as the barge passed beside a massive, broken stone pillar set into the lake, and the moment was lost.

As Bard maneuvered the barge through a series of further massive pillars, Dwalin examined them as best he could through the gathering dusk. “Dwarf work, and fine work at that,” he finally announced.

“What you’d expect, with Dwarves for neighbors,” Balin added. “Before Smaug came, this was Dale’s trading outpost with the Woodland Realm.”

“Yes ... yes, it was,” Bard agreed, eyeing the Dwarf. “After Dale was destroyed Smaug burned it as well. Dale’s survivors were too many for the size of the outpost, so rather than try to rebuild without the Dwarves’ expert help they chose to build a new town just past it.” He pointed forward with his chin. “There’s Lake-town now.” The Company turned to find a sizable town on the water, dark outlines in the growing dark lit up here and there by lanterns.

Balin finished counting the last of the coins in the pouch Gloin had given him, and frowned thoughtfully before turning toward Bard. “Tell me, laddie, d’ye know of a cheap inn where we can stay for a few days while we reprovision?” Sakura felt her heart sink — they needed to buy enough provisions to see them to the Lonely Mountain and then to the Iron Hills after they’d recovered the Arkenstone, and she suspected that they didn’t have enough coin.

“I’m afraid not. We don’t get many merchants and they only stay long enough to drop off their goods with the Master and leave — afraid of the dragon. So we only have one inn that spends most of its time as a tavern, and it costs.” When Balin winced, Bard gazed at him for a moment, then swept his gaze across the rest of the Dwarves before settling on Sakura. Finally, he sighed. “If you are willing to sleep _very_ close, you can stay at my home — for a small charge, of course.”

Sakura sighed in resignation. _Of course he’s offering to help, can’t have the poor cute little Hobbit spend the night on whatever passes for streets here_. She glanced toward the approaching town, and noticed the dark length that could only be a bridge connecting town to shore. _Or in the forest ... never mind that we’ve been camping for months_. Forcing her voice to stay even — he was being generous, after all — she asked, “You’d really do that for us?”

Bard shrugged. “You arrived with the barrels a few days early, so I don’t have as much meat to sell as usual. The extra coin will be welcome. I’ll even have a space apart for you, my two daughters have a separate room and you’re tiny enough there should be room in their bed for you.”

/oOo\

Bard was right, the addition of thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit to his home made for _very_ tight quarters — tight enough that half of the Company stayed out on the damp wooden planks of the walkway until after the quick meal out of their rations (Sakura finishing off the last of the soaked lembas she’d salvaged). And he was _almost_ right that there was enough room for everyone. (It helped that he and Dwalin slept on the barge, making sure that none of the deer carcasses vanished in the night.) And he was right that there was enough room in his daughters’ bed for Sakura, so long as Sakura slept on her side. Between being lightly pressed between two girls about half her age and half again as tall as she was and the Dwarves’ snoring in an enclosed space, it was not a comfortable night, though far from her worst even on the Quest, much less during the War.

Now, with Bard off delivering the barrels and selling the carcasses; Balin and Oin off bargaining for supplies; and Bard’s son Bain off with Dwalin, Gloin and Bifur to see if anyone in the town needed any laborers for the day; she was sitting on the roof looking over the town and watching the people in boats and walkways passing below as she worked the holster off her belt after removing her Bowie knife. It was a peaceful day, as peaceful a day as she’d had since leaving Beorn’s homestead without the whole ‘recovering from a near-fatal wound’ thing. And if a little boring ... after the last few weeks haunting Thranduil’s halls and then the excitement of the escape she could use a little boring.

Besides, what with the way she’d found herself reliving the River every time she closed her eyes, she had had a very poor night. A lazy day was just what she needed.

She’d never seen a place so crowded that didn’t include soldiers marching in formation, and she had to smile at energy that seemed to fill the town as she watched a matron calling for others to make way as she hurried past with a basket full of fish, three little children lined up behind her like so many goslings. Sakura was beginning to realize that the variation in the way different places felt was _real_ , not just her imagination at work. The Shire had a homey feel of land and families well-loved, and loving in return; Rivendell, underneath Elrond’s glamour of peace, had a feel of _history_ , the passing of ages, the quiet of a library; Mirkwood had been a twisted horror, one that in retrospect she was grateful she’d been too overwhelmed to fully experience for most of her time there; the Woodland Realm, watchfulness and a resigned determination. But Lake-town seemed to practically vibrate with life like she’d never felt, and she wondered if it was because of how many people were packed into such a tight space, or because it was a town of Men ... or both.

A panel in the roof she hadn’t known was there lifted, and Sigrid’s head poked up into sight. The older sister looked around, then her face lit up at the sight of the Hobbit. “ _There_ you are! That grouchy Dwarf said you’d promised to stay in the house, but I couldn’t find you anywhere else. How’d you get up here?”

“The window, jumped for the eaves, swung up.” At the teenager’s disbelieving look, Sakura shrugged. “I’m not exactly heavy, and my people are a nimble bunch.”

“You must be.” Sigrid climbed out of the opening and carefully made her way over the roof’s wooden shingles to sit beside Sakura (making sure no wandering eyes from below had a chance to see up her patchy, threadbare skirt). She looked out across the town. “Lake-town must seem small to you, after your journeys.”

Sakura softly laughed. “Small? Perhaps in area, the way you’re all stacked up, but in people, no. There aren’t many towns in Mirkwood, and Rivendell with its Elves is beautiful but not very crowded. I suppose Hobbiton might actually have more people, but mostly on farms so the town itself isn’t much. And ...” She laid a hand flat to the top of her head, then tried to lift it above Sigrid’s head and failed. “If you want _small_ , nothing beats Hobbits.”

Sigrid laughed softly. “I suppose you are right, you _are_ a tiny thing, aren’t you? Are you really grown up?”

“Half again your age, I think — I’ll be twenty-eight years shortly after the winter solstice. I’m even betrothed to be married, so I’m all grown up and doing adult stuff.” For a moment, the memory of her last night in Hobbiton — with Bilbo, the two of them naked in the candle-light — flashed into her mind and Sakura blushed. To distract Sigrid from asking why, she hastily pointed toward a tower some distance away, toward the middle of the town. “That tower — I thought at first it was a bell tower, but that’s no bell it’s holding. What is it?”

Sigrid’s gaze followed Sakura’s pointing finger, and she smiled proudly. “That’s a windlance — _the_ windlance, the one manned by my great-grandfather, Lord Girion, against the Dragon when it came. He was killed when his tower collapsed, but his windlance was salvaged from the wreckage and repaired.” Her voice dropping to a whisper, she added, “The current Master doesn’t like people talking about it, but a single scale knocked loose by the Black Arrows was found not far from his body ... if he had had the chance at one more shot, he would have killed the Dragon!”

“Oh?” Sakura quirked an eyebrow as she slipped her sheathed knife back on her belt. “How large was the scale?”

“I’ve never seen it, the last Master hid it away, but Father says it was _this big!_ ” Sigrid spread her hands a pace, maybe a pace and a half apart.

“That big, huh?” Considering the terror and chaos that haunted any battlefield, even she was sure one out of a fantasy novel, the likelihood of Lord Girion even noticing the scale was missing on a dragon in flight blitzing the city — much less actually hitting the mark — was the next thing to zero. And that was assuming the size of the scale hadn’t grown in the telling. _Still, there’s no point in stomping on her dreams of being a princess ‘if only’_. Such dreams were harmless enough if one didn’t overindulge, and Sigrid seemed steady enough for a teenager. “You bet, kid, he would have dropped it like picking off a pheasant. So, as fun as this is, was there a reason you were looking for me?”

Sigrid blushed scarlet and bolted upright, almost sliding off the roof before Sakura steadied her. “Oh! Yes, there was. With so many here, cooking for everyone is ... there’s just me and Tilda and she’s still pretty small ... I know it isn’t proper to ask a guest, but ... could you help?”

She was so ashamed at the request that Sakura couldn’t keep from giggling. “Oh, Sigrid, no one expects you to cook for thirteen Dwarves and one hungry Hobbit! Not even your father, I’m sure, he really should have said something before he left. Sure, I’ll help, but I’m not the one you really need to ask — that would be Bombur.” At Sigrid’s confused look, she added, “The _really_ fat one.”

“A male? _He_ can cook?”

Sakura rolled her eyes at Sigrid’s astonishment. “Yes, _he_ can cook. Your _father_ can cook, when he’s out in the forest by himself.” Rising to her feet, she whipped her belt around her and cinched it tight, adjusted the knife sheath for comfort, then leaned down to a Sigrid scooting backward up the roof on her butt and whispered, “A saying of my people, ‘never trust a thin cook’ — so Bombur is _very_ good.”

A still-giggling Sigrid opened the trap door and led the way into the house.

/\

“ ... and then Dwalin rushed by me on one side and his brother Balin — the one with the long, white forked beard doing the shopping right now — rushed by on the other and piled into the Goblins approaching us. That was the last I knew that day, as I finally lost my battle with the injuries I’d taken and collapsed unconscious. I didn’t wake up for days, and was even longer healing.

“And that is the tale of how I lost and found my Company, and how I saved the lives of Bombur and Thorin, and was saved in turn.”

Sakura finished the last of her tale at the same time she finished breaking up the head of cabbage for a salad (there _had_ to be farms south along the shore of the Long Lake, she just couldn’t see merchants hauling _cabbages_ all the way up the Long Lake to Lake-town or most of Lake-town being able to afford them if they did), and looked up at the two girls sitting at the sunlit table with her — teenager and prepubescent — staring at her in awe.

“Wow!” Tilda breathed. “You’re _betrothed?_ ”

Sakura’s jaw dropped, and Bombur — standing on a box by the stove where he was stirring his ever-popular stew — and Sigrid started laughing at her gobsmacked expression. Sigrid stopped chopping carrots long enough to ruffle Tilda’s hair. “Really, little sis? _That_ is what you find most amazing about that story? Considering how big he is, I find it more amazing that she wasn’t hurt when she saved Bombur!”

Bombur and Sakura both winced. “Actually, I popped my shoulder out of its socket,” Sakura admitted. “Dwalin had to pop it back in.”

“But ... you’re _really_ betrothed?” Tilda asked again. “You’re smaller than I am!”

Sigrid’s mouth opened for what Sakura thought was going to be an epic rebuke, from the expression on her face, but closed again at Sakura’s smiling shake of her head.

“Actually, I _am_ a little short for a Hobbit my age, but only a little.” Sakura put her hand on her leathers’ pocket over her heart. “I have my wedding ring right here waiting, and in a few years we’ll get married and a few years after that I hope I have a little girl just like you.” She was looking up slightly — seated in her own chair, even Tilda had a finger-length on her — and she grinned. “Only _much_ smaller.”

Tilda giggled again but Sakura barely noticed, because something about her pocket didn’t _feel_ right, even through the handkerchief she had left in the pocket when it was stitched up. She drew her knife and started carefully working at the stitches sealing the pocket shut, she didn’t want to cut up the leather itself....

The stitches came loose and she pulled out the bunched-up handkerchief and dropped it on the table then dug for the ring, and froze at the sight of a ring rolling across the table ... and the feel of _another_ ring under her finger in the pocket.

Tilda slapped her hand down on the table. “I got it!” She picked up the ring and dropped it into Sakura’s outstretched palm. Sakura dug the _other_ ring out of her pocket and held it up next to the first, shifting to so they were in the sunlight. “ _This_ one is my wedding ring,” she finally said slowly. “It has the scratches I remember.”

“Let me see! Let me see!”

Sakura handed her wedding ring to Tilda, then went back to examining the other ring — absolutely flawless, not so much as a hint of a scratch. But she suspected that if she had the ring weighed, it would be solid gold.

“What is it?” The question was Sigrid’s, but both she and Bombur were watching Sakura while Tilda was trying the wedding ring on one finger after another looking for one that would fit it.

“I don’t know ... I didn’t _have_ two rings, where did —” Sakura blanched. “This ... this must be Smeagol and Gollum’s Precious! He must have lost it down where I landed instead of up in the tunnels, and then when I saw it I mistook it for my wedding ring ... it was in my pocket all along! Oh, that poor thing....” For a few moments she gazed at that perfect, unmarked ring, then slipped it back in her pocket. “It looks like keeping my promise to visit them again on my way back to the Shire just became even more important.”

Bombur frowned. “Are ye certain of that, lassie? This Smeagol-Gollum creature doesn’t sound safe.”

“I’m sure they aren’t, but I doubt they’re as dangerous as I am. I’ll be fine.” Turning to Tilda, she found her holding up her hand, admiring the ring she’d managed to get on one of her pinkies. “Enough play time, kiddo, time to give it back.” Then when Tilda pouted, she just laughed as she held out her hand. “Come on, we have a meal to finish preparing.”

With some Tilda managed to twist the ring off her finger and dropped it in Sakura’s palm, eagerly asking, “Can you tell us another story?”

“Sure.” She quickly ran over the stories that she’d told the children back in Hobbiton, and easily settled on one of their favorites, that they’d demanded over and over. “This one isn’t about me, but it’s one of my favorites: ‘Once upon a time, in a far off land, there was a war so massive that the children of the land’s greatest city were sent to the country to keep them safe. Among those children were two brothers, Peter and Edmund, and two sisters, Susan and Lucy....’ ”

/\

Sakura hummed happily to herself as she finished rinsing off her soap-lathered body, trying to keep as much of the water as possible inside the tub she was squatting in. This was the bedroom she was going to spend one more night in, after all. A wet floor would be bad enough, a wet bed?

 _It’s been a_ good _day_ , she thought as she set aside the bucket she’d used to pour water over herself, then stood up and snagged one of the (rather threadbare) towels from the bed to stand on and another to dry herself off. The two young girls she had spent most of her time with were a balm to her soul after the horrors of Mirkwood and the stress of haunting Thranduil’s halls and the terror of their escape. And while the water for her bath wasn’t exactly hot and what heat it had was fading fast, it was a lot warmer than the river water of the Woodland Realm!

Teasing Thorin had been fun, too. He had been as grouchy as a bear with a sore tooth, and she knew why — he was feeling the press of Durin’s Day rapidly approaching, and couldn’t say anything without risking Bard or his children asking _why_ its approach was so important. His growl when she’d oh-so-innocently commented that his cousin Dain wasn’t expecting them any time soon (or at all for that matter, though she left that unsaid) had the girls giggling again and the most interesting expressions on the faces of the few Dwarves around as they fought to contain their own laughter.

But now the Company’s gear was dried out and repaired as best they could manage, their ruined supplies replaced, their clothes all washed, Bard paid for his hospitality, and a barge owner promised the last of their funds to take them across the Long Lake at first light to drop them off at the usual place for merchants headed to or from the Iron Hills — from there they could head east along the road until they were out of sight, then cut north for the Lonely Mountain. They were almost to home base, all that was left was to acquire the Arkenstone and head for the Iron Hills for winter lodgings. Thorin could send out the summons for the Dwarves to gather and march on Erebor. But that was the Dwarves’ business, she figured she could travel back to the Shire with the messengers headed for the Blue Mountains.

 _Yeah, right, and denial is a river in Egypt — they’re your squad mates now — shieldbrothers, I think Dwalin said — there’s no way you’re leaving until it’s done. No matter_ how _much Thorin rants about it ... or how little use you’ll be in a real battle here and now, as small as you are. Or how many new nightmares will be haunting your nights. Maybe there’ll be some scouting first, to check possible entrances into the mountain beside the two —_

“You really _are_ all grown up.”

“What?” Jarred out of her increasingly grim thoughts, Sakura looked up at Sigrid and Tilda sitting on the bed, visible in the flickering candle light.

“You’re all grown up,” Sigrid repeated. “Your chest wrappings and clothing hides it, but ...” She held up her hands and made mirrored S-curves in the air.

Sakura looked down at herself, then hefted her breasts. “Yes, I actually have a figure. I don’t bind these as tightly as I did when I was pretending to be male, but they’re still large enough to be painful during sparring or a fight without some support.” She looked up at a choking sound and found a furiously blushing Sigrid looking away while her little sister giggled. “Oops! Sorry.”

She hastily finished drying herself off and practically dove into Tilda’s extra nightgown (a little big). A few minutes later Dori and Nori had removed the tub, the candles blown out, and the three of them were snuggled together on the bed listening to the sounds of the Dwarves settling down for the night, giggling at the occasional complaint and curse in Khuzdul the process entailed.

As the sounds died down, Tilda whispered, “Sakura, do you know any lullabies?”

“Lullabies? Yes, but not any you’d know. Why?”

“Before she died Momma used to sing us lullabies. Could you sing one?”

With a gentle smile no one could see in the dark, Sakura twisted to give Tilda a one-armed hug. “Sure, Little One, I can sing one.”

“I’m bigger than you!”

Sakura mock-growled. “Do you want a lullaby, or not?”

“Yes, yes, I didn’t mean it! You’re bigger.”

Sigrid’s giggles on Sakura’s other side turned into outright laughter at the obvious untruth. Sakura waited until the older sister got herself under control (fighting back her own giggles), then softly began:

“You came from a land where all is light,  
“To a world hath day and a world hath night.  
“To guard you by day, you have my love,  
“And to guard you by night, your friends above.”

She sang of Maiar that watch over little children, waiting to wake them with the sun’s rise, and by the time she was finished Tilda had gone limp with sleep. Sakura lightly kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, Little One.” She rolled back onto her back only for Sigrid to pull her into her own one-armed hug with a whispered “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_.”

Maybe tonight’s dreams wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I again followed Araceil's lead in skipping the whole "smuggle the Company into Lake-town" thing, like her I found that aspect of the movie kinda silly.


	26. Arrivals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, a little short for one of my chapters these days, especially since it's been two weeks since my last posted chapter. As I predicted things at work are getting interesting, but what I didn't expect was for politics in the US to become so interesting as well. (Politics — the greatest spectator blood sport ever invented by Man.) And this was the perfect place to break it off, not that anyone's going to have much trouble guessing what's coming _next_ chapter....

Tauriel flinched when Legolas stepped out of the shadows of the trees that surrounded them, but kept walking. He walked over to fall in alongside her. The pair walked in silence for a time, until he finally said, “You’re leaving.”

Obviously a conversation opener, considering that she was carrying a backpack along with sword and bow, but she simply shrugged. “Yes.”

Legolas waited a few moments, until it was obvious that she wasn’t going to continue. “Does Carelwen know?”

“Yes, I told her.” Tauriel shrugged again. “She said she wasn’t happy losing one of her best scouts at the beginning of her time as Captain of the Guard, but that you’d all survive without me.”

She fell silent again. After the pair walked in silence for a time Legolas gently gripped her arm, bringing her to a halt and turning her to face him. “I know the symptoms of the wanderlust that sometimes strikes — I’ve suffered them myself, and wandered the world beyond our forest for a time. You never have, and are not now. So why?”

Tauriel opened her mouth to pour out the guilt that had churned in her gut and haunted her quiet hours since the scouts had hunted down the surviving Orcs through Mirkwood’s trees, only for the words to choke her — she simply couldn’t bring herself to admit the part she’d played in the Dwarves’ escape, and the deaths of the distracted guards at the Orcs’ hands. So she settled for a simpler truth.

“The Dark is rising.”

“What?”

“The Dark is rising.” She turned away to stare into the forest to the East. “I encountered our Ghost briefly, just before the start of our patrol on the Feast of Starlight.” Legolas’s gaze sharpened, and she waved a hand dismissively. “I was alone, and she was careful to stay out of reach then disappeared when I glanced away for a moment. But we talked for a while and that was what she said, that the Dark is rising again. And don’t forget that Mithrandir was with them on their Quest, at least in the beginning. Remember her saying when we first encountered her, that they found Glamdring at the same time as Orcrist, that he now bears that sword?” Legolas nodded, frowning in puzzlement until horrified comprehension spread across his face. Tauriel smiled mirthlessly. “Exactly. If he started with them, what happened that was important enough for him to leave thirteen Dwarves of varying competence and a single tiny Hobbit — however competent _she_ might be — to deal with Smaug by themselves? And what might that mean for us here?”

“So you intend to help them?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I think this a fool’s errand, but you may be right. And you are free to follow your own mind.” He lifted a hand in salute. “Oromë and Vána watch over you.”

“Or perhaps her older sister. Dwarves are the special concern of Aulë, after all, and what Valar better to watch over Hobbits than his wife?” Tauriel flashed an impish smile at the suddenly thoughtful prince, and turned away to break into a run through the shadow-dappled woods. She wanted to reach Laketown before evening.

/oOo\

As it turned out, Sakura had been right. Her dreams that last night in Laketown, sandwiched between the two girls, had been wonderful — a garden, mist turning the early morning light to a hazy glow, a small child with Bilbo’s hair that she somehow knew had her eyes running between the rows of vegetables and flowers chasing a butterfly, laughter just like Tilda’s.

She had clutched the memory of that dream to her as she’d sat shivering in the middle of the boat that had carried them across Long Lake, and tried to keep the memory alive as the Company had eventually left the road to strike out across the blasted landscape toward Lonely Mountain. (A landscape that felt ... not dead, not twisted and dark like Mirkwood, but empty, as if all that lived had fled the dragon’s presence.)

Now, standing at the top of a bare, rocky mountain spur, that dream was nothing but faded tatters as she stared down at what the decades had left of the gutted ruins of Dale, rubble-filled streets and broken walls like jagged teeth. She remembered another town — much larger than Dale in size if smaller for its time — that had been swept away by Fire.

Vaguely, as if from a great distance, she could hear Balin. “These slopes used to be covered by forest, filled with bird-song.” Something else Cheyenne Mountain had shared with Erebor. She wondered if Colorado Springs and the refugee camp that had surrounded it had looked anything like Dale after the nuclear mushroom cloud she’d seen had blown away. _At least Dale would have had more survivors, however you counted them_.

A gentle hand gripped her shoulder. “Sakura?”

She lifted a hand to grip Thorin’s, touched by the concern in his voice. “Just memories of my own war. I’ll be fine.”

“You had to fight dragons, too?” Ori asked eagerly.

Still staring down at Dale, Sakura missed the various winces at that question, and at the bitter edge to her responding laugh. “Compared to what we could do to each other, Smaug is nothing. Fortunately, both sides’ leaders were sane enough that we mostly didn’t. Mostly....” She squeezed Thorin’s hand, then pushed it off her shoulder and turned away from the valley. “So, how much farther to where the secret door’s hidden?”

“Uh ... right,” a flustered Balin replied. He pulled out the map to double-check, then nodded. “It should be somewhere at the head of the valley between these next two spurs.”

/oOo\

Tauriel strode along the bridge leading to Lake-town. She’d made good time, there was plenty of daylight left. And the Dwarves couldn’t be all that far ahead of her — they couldn’t have ridden the barrels all the way to Lake-town and they wouldn’t have pushed through the swamp that the river turned into after it left Mirkwood on foot. But they would have kept to the swamp’s edge to avoid getting lost in the forest and that fringe was heavy going. She’d swung wide, but she also knew the ground well enough to take it at a run. If she hadn’t beaten them there, surely they would have only a day on her.

The two guards at the end of the bridge stepped aside and waved her through (they might question others seeking to enter the town, but not Elves), but she paused after walking through the open gate. “Excuse me, I have come in search of a company of Dwarves that might have arrived yesterday or today. Have you seen them?”

“No, my lady,” the guard to her left replied. “The only Dwarves to arrive recently were several days ago, and that was on the barge sent for your empty wine barrels.”

“Did they? They must have had a stroke of luck. Was there a Hobbit with them? Even smaller than Dwarves, red hair, blue eyes, bare feet with fur on top.”

“A ...  Hobbit, did you say?” The guard grinned. “The tavern gossip’s that she’s a Dwarven princess being escorted to the Iron Hills to be married.”

Tauriel laughed, shaking her head. “No, she’s not a princess, Dwarven _or_ Hobbit. She’s a scout, and _very_ dangerous. So where can I find them?”

/\

Tauriel knocked on the door of the home she’d been directed to, her heart sinking. It was _much_ too quiet for thirteen Dwarves (if not one Hobbit). Either she was being pranked and at the wrong house (unlikely, considering the regard Lake-towners had for Elves), or she’d missed them.

The door opened to reveal a tiny Man of the female variety (though not as tiny as Sakura) with light brown hair, wearing a clean but worn and slightly tattered dress. The young girl gaped up at the visitor, stunned silent, and from within the house a voice (also young and female, from the sound) called out: “Tilda, who’s at the door?”

Tilda blushed and her mouth opened and closed as she struggled for words, until a smiling Tauriel took pity on her. “My apologies for bothering you. My name is Tauriel and I’m looking for thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit. Have you seen them?”

“I ... I ... yes, they were here, but ... but ...”

An older girl appeared in a doorway farther back in the house, obviously related to the younger girl thanks to her hair and the shape of her face. She froze at the sight of their visitor. Tauriel patiently repeated her introduction and question, and the newcomer visibly gathered her wits. “I’m Sigrid and this is my sister Tilda. Please, come in, our father should be home any time. Yes, they were here, but they left yesterday morning.”

“What do you want with them?” Tilda demanded, crossing her arms and frowning up at Tauriel.

Sigrid smacked the back of her sister’s head — gently, Tauriel noted. “Tilda, manners! She’s an Elf.” She pulled the little girl out of Tauriel’s way. “Please, come in. Father and our brother should be home at any time.”

/oOo\

Sakura sat on a blanket examining Sting’s blade for nicks — something she had done earlier at Bard’s home, when she’d cleaned the blood and gore out of the scabbard, but she hadn’t quite believed what she’d found. Now that they _thought_ they’d found the location of the secret entrance (up a stairway disguised as decorative carving but seen by Ori with his artist’s eye, to a tiny flat space invisible from below), she’d taken a second look at her sword and now found the same thing.

Not a single nick or scratch — Sting didn’t even need to be sharpened, and a bemused Sakura slid it back into its scabbard. _And this is an_ Elven _blade, Dwarf work is supposed to be even better!_ It made her wonder about the quality of the Bowie knife Arwen had given her. The Elf princess had said it wasn’t of the same quality as Sting, but still ...

Rising to her feet to sling on and buckle the harness that carried Sting on her back, Sakura looked over at the Dwarves searching the rock wall for the keyhole. She didn’t know why they were bothering — from what Dwalin had told her, thanks to the Dwarves’ own Art, a properly hidden Dwarven secret entrance — at least one involving stone — would be undetectable even to Wizards. She couldn’t imagine that the camouflage for one leading into the heart of a kingdom would be anything less than perfect. _And_ — she glanced up at the sinking sun — _since we managed to make it here on Durin’s Day, it isn’t like we won’t know if we got it right in a little while, anyway_. But this close to the culmination of the Quest, she supposed they simply found it impossible to do nothing but wait.

She watched as the sun slowly sank below the horizon, more and more of the Dwarves joining her as the clouds turned red and the sky darkened. Finally, the last of the sun sank below the horizon and the Company groaned.

Sakura sighed, then forced a grin as she turned to face the others. Ori looked especially downcast, and she walked over and patted the young Dwarf on the arm. “Hey, it isn’t your fault this wasn’t the right place, it looked good. Don’t worry, it just means I’ll be going through the front gate tomorrow.” And past Dale again, _not_ something she was looking forward to. _Ah, well, needs must_.

“Sakura is right.” Thorin glanced around the tiny alcove, and the space taken up by their piled-up packs. “This is too small for us to camp, we’ll need to go back down. Sakura, I want you coming down last.” At her questioning look, he added, “You’re the least likely of us to slip and fall, but if someone else does I don’t want to risk you getting knocked off — however good you are at what you do, all of us can _bounce_ better than you can.”

The rest of the Dwarves laughed at Sakura’s reluctant agreement and, the somber mood broken, cheerfully sorted out their packs and began back down the the zig-zag stairs as quickly as they could, while they still had some light.

Sakura had just stepped down to the first step when she heard a clicking sound behind her. Pausing, she turned to look back to find a thrush — the first bird she’d seen since the Company had left the eastern road to head north into the Desolation of Smaug. It was knocking something held in its beak against a gray rock.

“ _Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks_ …”

“No!” she breathed, turning to stare westward. The sun had already set!

“ ... _and the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole_.”

_I can still see, the light isn’t gone!_ Whirling back around, she shouted down: “Everyone, come back! No, Thorin, pass the key up, hurry! Wait, no, pass the key up _and_ come back!”

Without waiting to see if anyone had understood her, she rushed over to the thrush (the thing in its beak was a snail that it kept hammering against the stone), and waited. Dwarves began to join her in the deepening dusk, but she ignored them except to push Bombur out of the way when the bulk of his barely-darker shadow fell on the wall. She glanced up at the sky: the moon was setting, it was sinking behind the western ridge ... as the moon disappeared, a circular beam of moonlight somehow focused through some hole that must have been carved through that ridge faintly illuminated a tiny crevasse in the rock wall.

Thorin stepped past her and inserted the key into the crevasse and tried to turn it. Something clicked, and a softly glowing outline appeared on the rock — rectangular, the right size for a Dwarven doorway. He reached for what had looked like a natural break in the rough rock of the wall but now was perfect for a handle and pulled, and in spite of decades at least since its last use, the door silently swung outward to reveal a large square of inky darkness.

They were in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, my Lake-towners are _extremely_ respectful of Elves. Not only is the Woodland Realm the town's primary trading partner, but they are a race of immortal, breathtakingly beautiful, hyper-competent (to the Lake-towners' eyes) people that hold themselves aloof from the rest of the world. It wouldn't be that much of a stretch for some of the Lake-towners to actually worship them!


	27. Spreading the News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO _finally_ another chapter, I am going to be _so_ happy when things at work settle down again — some time toward the end of August. Of course I'll be finally getting my yearly vacation shortly after that....

Bard leaned back in his chair, his plate empty of his daughters’ marvelous meal, and gazed in bemusement at their guest across the table. The only thing that kept Tauriel’s beauty from being unearthly in the flickering candle-light was her practical leathers and the way she was giggling along with Tilda at one of Sigrid’s tales of her brother’s awkward stage. (Not that one would know Bain had mostly grown out of it, the way he was blushing whenever he looked at the Elf maiden — somehow, Bard had missed that his son had begun his _next_ awkward stage.)

It was like his home had somehow become an inn over the past few days, between first the company of Dwarves and now an Elf dropping in — not that he would be able to bring himself to hint at payment when the inevitable offer for Tauriel to spend the night would be made, not with the laughter that she had brought with her. There hadn’t been much laughter since Aelfgyth had died, especially from Ingrid and Tilda — her daughters had done a wonderful job of filling her shoes over the past several years, but they had become ... quiet. The laughter first Sakura and the Dwarves and now Tauriel had brought was a gift beyond price.

But even as his heart eased at the laughter brought on by the tales Tauriel and Sigrid were exchanging, something niggled at the back of his mind, something wasn’t right — something Tauriel had said. He ignored Tauriel’s story (about her own older brother, an extra casket of wine up from Lake-town, the trees carved out of stone in King Thranduil’s throne room, and the ... inventive ... punishment that followed) as he tried to remember what the Elf had said when he’d arrived home from a fruitless day of hunting to find her helping his daughters set out the plates for supper. _Let’s see ... she introduced herself, said that she trying to catch up with — Sakura! She knew Sakura’s name ... and Thorin’s._ (A name that _also_ kept niggling at him.) _Sigrid or Tilda could have told her, but ..._

But the only thing the Dwarves had said about the Elves was that they’d saved them from the Goblins.

“So just how did you meet the Dwarves?” he asked nonchalantly as the laughter died down. “They didn’t really say anything about it, other than that you rescued them when they were attacked by Goblins.”

Tauriel smiled ruefully, shaking her head. “They wouldn’t have — you might have heard that Elves and Dwarves don’t really get along. Actually, I first met them when we rescued them from a Spider nest. They spent several weeks with us, and had just left for Lake-town when they were attacked by the Orcs ... I mean, Goblins. It took us several days to hunt down the last of those foul beasts, before I could follow Thorin’s Company.”

“That must have been exciting!” Bain enthused, failing to notice how Tauriel’s smile froze for a moment. She didn’t get a chance to respond, though, because Bard finally remembered where he might have seen Thorin’s name before.

He leaned forward, and everyone else around the table broke off their conversation and looked at him. “Tauriel, it’s after nightfall and the inn may be full, several merchants arrived today. You may stay here if you wish, but all I can offer you is our couch — unlike Sakura, you’re too large to join my daughters in their bed.”

Tauriel glanced at the two girls, and lifted an eyebrow at Sigrid’s faint blush as Tilda began giggling. Turning back to Bard, she said, “I would be happy to stay here, the couch will be fine — certainly better than what I’ve had on long patrols. Thank you.”

“Thank you for the joy you’ve brought my House. Girls, you’ll need to get out the blankets again.” His daughters nodded, and he rose to his feet. “I just remembered something, I need to go out. I don’t know how long I’ll be. Bain, look after your sisters while I’m gone.”

Bain straightened at that, it wasn’t something his father usually worried about when he was away, not these days — they had good neighbors, and Bain had grown quite a bit in the past year. But when Bard didn’t say anything else he simply nodded.

Bard clasped him on the shoulder for a moment (noting how tall his son was getting), then strapped on his sword and left.

/\

“Cenbert, open up!” Bard hammered on the shop door again, and again until an upstairs window opened and Cenbert the Old leaned out, wearing only a nightshirt, a lit oil lamp in hand.

“Bard? What are you doing here at this time of night? There’s nothing wrong with the little ones, is there?”

Bard smiled up at the bald elder — the old man had helped him after Aelfgyth’s death by watching over the children during the day while he’d been earning a living until they’d learned enough to look after themselves (well, Bain and Sigrid at least). The old man had taken them into his heart (his own son had left years before as a merchant’s guard and had never returned), and they’d returned the favor. “I need to look at one of your wares,” Bard said, warmth coloring his tone even through his worry.

“What, now?”

“Now. It’s important.”

“Very well, I’ll be right down.”

He pulled back into the house, and in only a handful of beats Bard could hear the _clack_ of the heavy lock on the first floor door turning. The door swung inward, to reveal Cenbert now wearing a robe over his nightshirt, and Bard hastily pushed through it.

“So what’s so important that you couldn’t wait for the morning to look at it?” Cenbert asked as he closed and relocked the door.

“A tapestry, the one from just before the Dragon, with the lineage of the kings of Erebor.”

“Really.” Shooting Bard a sharp look, Cenbert picked up the oil lamp from the small table beside the door. “Let’s see it, and then you can tell me why that relic matters.”

He led Bard into one of the rooms just off the main display room that he would open to the outside during the day, where he kept the tapestries that would bring in real money, but only from a rare visitor. Bard moved past him and sorted through a pile of tapestries, rolled up and stood on their ends to lean against each other and the wall, unrolling each just enough to show it wasn’t the one he was looking for until he grunted in satisfaction. “Here it is.”

With some effort, the old man helped lift the tapestry up onto the long table that he’d unroll the tapestries on when he was showing them to interested customers (Elves from the Woodland Realm or merchants from the South), then picked up the lamp again and held it up beside the table so Bard could see.

Bard pushed the tapestry so that it unrolled along the table and off the far end then began pulling it toward him when he found that he had the wrong end, allowing it to pool about his feet. The far end appeared at the other end of the table, and he hurried around to look at it, ran a finger along the names and sigils woven into the fabric — “ ... Thror, Thrain ... Thorin, I knew it!” his fist hammered down on the tapestry-covered table.

Cenbert looked back and forth between Bard and the tapestry, frowning as he ran his free hand over his bald head. “Is this about the Dwarves you hosted for a few nights? I thought they’d left for the Iron Hills.”

Bard took a deep breath as he forced himself to calm down. “Of course you heard about that,” he remarked with a wry smile. “Only as it turns out they weren’t headed for the Iron Hills but the Mountain — I have an Elf woodswoman at my home right now, looking to catch up with them.”

“The Mountain — the Dragon!”

“Yes, they must be after the Dragon, though what they think a mere thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit ...” He broke off and pushed away from the table. “No matter, I have to rouse the town — and isn’t the Master going to _love_ that!”

Hurrying from the room, he waited impatiently as Cenbert joined him to once again unlock the door, then gripped the storekeeper’s shoulder. “Old friend, I have no idea if I will be able to rouse the town. Can you see to my family, get them started on their way?”

Cenbert nodded. “Of course.”

“Thank you, as always.” Bard squeezed his friend’s shoulder, then hurried through the door and down the walkway toward the Master’s central mansion.

/\

Cenbert stepped to the door and watched his young friend disappear into the darkness, then turned to hurry up the stairs to his living quarters to get properly dressed. _The Dragon! After all these years, it might really be coming!_

Cenbert wasn’t old enough to have been born in Dale, but he was one of the first generation born in the refounded Lake-town and he could remember how the Mountain had haunted his own elders — their attention constantly drawn to it, the stories they repeatedly told of the glory that was Dale and the grandeur of the Dwarves, and the day the Dragon came and it all died in fire. But the decades had passed and that earlier generation had died in ever-increasing numbers until the last was gone. His own generation had followed until only he was left, and the memory of that night had faded. Oh, people still spoke quietly of the Mountain and the Dragon that slept within it, but Smaug was never seen and the sense of omnipresent danger had sunk until it was but an ember. But now ... !

Finally dressed, he hurried back down the stairs to the still-open door. He paused for a moment to try to lock the door again but his hands were shaking, pain running along his arms — but not shaking so hard he couldn’t wipe away the sweat beading on his forehead until it ran down along his cheeks and stung his eyes.

Giving up on the door, Cenbert hurried toward Bard’s home, weaving a little thanks to the slight slant in the plank walkway from the houses toward the water. The world seemed to take on an unreal tinge as he felt himself beginning to float....

He was unconscious before his body hit the walkway and slid over edge to splash into the water.

/\

Bard stopped at the edge of the only large empty space in Lake-town other than the docks for the merchants’ barges, directly in front of the front steps up to the Master’s mansion and its tower at the rear. The front entrance was torch-lit with two of the  men-at-arms the Master had hired away from visiting merchants standing guard, he wasn’t going to be getting in _that_ way. But ...

He glanced up at the top levels of the off-centered tower, the belfry and then the windlance. When he had been a boy one way to show off was to climb the outside of the tower at night and swing the windlance around, pretending to be his grandfather getting off that last needed shot to take down the Dragon. That had ended when Hugi had been stupid enough to ring the bell instead, but it had been decades since — hopefully the only guards outside the tower were flanking the front entrance. _Well, Bard, time to replay your childhood_.

Grinning at the wry thought, he silently made his way back up the street — if he tried to slip along the edge of the plaza the guards were sure to see him — then down the first cross street that would take him around to the tower’s rear.

As he’d hoped, the guard that had been posted there after Hugi’s idiocy was long gone, but the hand- and footholds were still there (even if he was considerably larger) and he quickly climbed to the belfry just below the windlance and looked around at the room, waist-high walls, the ceiling and bell supported by the massive wooden pillars at each corner and smaller ones in the middle of the walls.

_So, how do I do this?_ He needed to keep the trap door closed while he rang the bell until a crowd gathered, people that would trust his word....

While the extra guard was gone and the hand-and footholds still there, there was one change from his childhood — the rope that ran from the bell through the floor down to the ground floor four stories below was pulled taut, the bell swung up as high as it could go. There would be no ringing the bell without first getting some slack in the rope, which was fine for stopping stupid boys but fit perfectly with his own needs.

He leaped out and grabbed the rope, wrapping his legs around it to hang over the square hole in the floor and four-story drop below it. The rope was taut enough that the bell didn’t so much as twitch, and he shimmied down a body-length. _That should be enough_. Holding on with legs and one hand, he drew his knife and slid it between the rope and his stomach to quickly saw through it — and dropped the knife to hastily grab the rope as his weight pulled him down along the single hand now holding it. His drop stopped with a bare half-foot of rope left, and he would have sighed with relief if he hadn’t been gritting his teeth against a groan at the burning pain in palms and fingers. _I could have_ really _thought that through better. At least I didn’t ring the bell_.

He painfully pulled himself back up to the belfry (in the dark not noticing the bloodstains he was leaving along the rope), got his feet back on the floor, and allowed the bell to swing down — _slowly_ so that it didn’t ring — then looked around. There was the trap door for the ladder down to the first floor, and ... _It’s on the side facing the back alley, perfect!_ He shuffled around the hole to stand on the trap door, made sure none of the rope was hanging through the hole, took a deep breath took in the rope’s slack, and _pulled_.

The bell swung, and he almost dropped the rope and grabbed his ears at the massive _DONG_ that reverberated across the sleeping town. Instead he yelped as, with the bell’s swing back toward him, his grip on the rope almost yanked him off his feet and into the hole. He staggered, loosened his grip to let the rope slide through his hands until the bell reached the top of its swing, tightened his grip and _pulled_. This time the _DONG_ was even louder, and the next, but he ignored the pain in hands and ears as he repositioned himself on top of the trap door and got into the rhythm of the swing.

Once he had the rhythm down he looked over the edge of the waist-high wall, down into the alley. As expected, people were beginning to stream out of their homes toward the square, torches and lamps in their hands. He wouldn’t know anyone living close enough to the Master’s mansion to be making their way through the alley already, but soon ... he kept pulling as he watched.

The trap door under his feet shifted as someone — one of the men-at-arms, Bard was sure — tried to lift it. Whoever it was tried again, the trap door slowly rising until Bard bounced on it in time with the swing. There was a _thunk_ , and a scream loud enough that he could actually faintly hear it over the tolling bell hammering his ears, he hoped the man-at-arms managed to grab the ladder before he fell all four stories — mercenary he might be, he was just doing his job; it wasn’t his fault that the Master was a fool.

Then Bard _finally_ saw someone he knew in the alley below. Letting go of the rope, he braced himself on the edge of the wall and shouted down: “Trummund! Trummund!” When the blond man looked up, he shouted, “The Dwarves! They are going to the Mountain! The Dragon! The Dragon!”

Bard didn’t notice the man-at-arms that had climbed up into the belfry along the bell’s rope he’d let go of to dangle through the hole, but he certainly noticed the sword hilt that hammered into his temple ... briefly.

/\

Trummund stared up at the Master, standing at the top of the stairs leading up to his mansion dressed in a brightly colored, finely-woven robe no one but Trummund assumed the Master’s servants had ever seen before. The rotund (or at least, as rotund as Lake-towners got) man was telling the crowd that it was a false alarm, nothing but a man with nothing but his ancestry to his name trying to inflate his self-importance.

_So that_ was _Bard that I heard — why the Master has it in for that man I don’t know, it’s not like Bard has ever tried to become the Master himself. And even if he was what would be the point? Bard’s smarter than that!_

He ignored the Master’s continuing rant as he thought back, tried to remember just what Bard had shouted ... something about the Dwarves he’d hosted for a few nights ... the Mountain? _Smaug! They’re going after Smaug!_

/\

Shortly after the Master dismissed the crowd, boats began to quietly move along the water-streets to the edges of Lake-town, and then away into the lake to circle around to the southern shore to disgorge their occupants and return for more — a trickle growing to a flood as the word spread from friend to family to friend to neighbor ... the Dragon was coming.


	28. Murphy's Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who read my _The Raven_ story will know I was planning to temporarily put that story on hiatus while I post a chapter for each of the rest of my non-Hobbit stories -- it's been almost a year, and I ought to at least show that they aren't _really_ dead. However, upon reflection I think that I'll post one more chapter of _The Raven_ first -- I have plot bunnies for that chapter jumping all over me, and I want to clear them out first. But then I _will_ get those other chapters out before going back to it.

Sakura stepped back a step, gagging as the warm air from the midnight-black square of the secret entrance poured around the Company. “That ... that ...”

“Reeks,” Oin finished for her, pinching his nose shut.

“All the halls must be filled with Smaug’s foul stench.” Balin sounded odd, like he was trying to speak without breathing. From his grimace, he was failing miserably.

“Right, I suppose I’ll just get used to it. Well, there’s no point in waiting.”

“What!?” All the Dwarves turned toward Sakura, presumably staring at her though she couldn’t tell in the gathering dark. Thorin demanded, “You want to go _now_?”

Sakura shrugged. “Might as well. It’s not like any of us willing be sleeping tonight, and if it turns out Smaug is awake the dark will give you a better chance to hide.” She pulled her backpack’s straps off her shoulders and slid it down her arms behind her back, catching it before it could fall to the ground, unclasped her cloak from around her neck and bundled it up to lay beside her pack, then paused. “Uh ... how am I supposed to see down there?”

“Glowstones, the freshest of them should still be working.” When Sakura nodded toward the pitch black of the entrance, Thorin added, “The tunnel will have several turns, so that the entrance location won’t be betrayed by light.”

“Makes sense.” She handed her bow and quiver to Kili, reached over her shoulder to tug on Sting, making sure the strap keeping it in its scabbard was secure, checked her knife in its sheath at her waist, began tugging at the harness holding scabbard and sheath at her back and waist, twisting to make sure she could move freely. “That’s a big mountain, where’s the Arkenstone likely to be?”

After a moment of oddly tense silence, Thorin replied, “It’ll be in the throne room. When the Dragon came, my grandfather tried to retrieve it. He had barely released it from its setting in the back of his throne when Smaug’s rampage reached him and he dropped it into the collapsing piles of treasure. I had to pull him away before it could be retrieved and even then we barely made it out.”

Sakura stopped twisting and looked up. “ ‘Collapsing piles of gold’.”

There was an even longer moment of tense silence, then, reluctance clear in Thorin’s voice, he said, “Grandfather had the treasury stacked in piles in the throne room, flanking both sides of the aisle leading to his throne.”

He fell silent. Sakura waited until it was clear he wasn’t going to continue, then carefully said, “You’ve told me that Dwarves are ... attached ... to the products of their craft, but is that ... normal?”

“No, it isn’t.”

She winced at the curt, flat statement. _Right, touchy issue, time to change the subject_. “So, if I’m facing the throne, where’s it likely to be? Front? Left? Right?”

“Front, perhaps to the right, toward or at the bottom of the steps up to the throne.”

“Right.” She turned toward the now barely visible entrance, then paused when Thorin lightly touched her arm.

“I’m going with you, as far as the first glowstones.”

She hesitated, wincing at the thought of Thorin’s big feet (the big feet of any of the Dwarves, really, except for Nori and maybe Fili), but couldn’t think of any way to talk him out of it and time was a’wasting. She wanted to be back before morning, so they could be well on their way before the next nightfall. “All right, step lightly. Keep one hand on the wall to guide your path and slowly slide your feet so you don’t trip or kick anything. I’ll go first.”

/\

Thorin had been right, there were several doglegs to block the light before the first glowstones came into view, those in perhaps one in four of the sconces along the walls still faintly glowing.

Pausing under the first glowstones, Sakura waited for Thorin to join her. Looking up at his shadowed face, she murmured, “This is where you stop.”

“Yes.” Thorin hesitated for a moment, before hesitantly adding, “It would be stupid to ask if you really want to do this — it’s why you came, and I know of no one else that has a better chance than you. But you will be careful?”

“As careful as I can. I have a fiancé waiting for me in Hobbiton and a family to start, after all.”

“Good.”

They stood silently for another long moment, then Thorin offered his hand, and when Sakura reached for it grasped her forearm. Sakura returned the grip as strongly as she could, then noting the way his head twitched and remembering when at Beorn’s house the Dwarves had entertained a bedridden Hobbit with tales of their customs, murmured, “Thank you for not head-butting me, that would not had ended well.” Releasing Thorin’s arm, she turned and silently strode down the passageway, his soft laughter echoing in her ears.

/\

Sakura stepped around the corner of the corridor the lower entrance to the secret entry had opened onto, and found herself on a small platform high on the wall of the throne room. It was all she could do not to gasp at the sight stretching out below her, and for just a moment her control over her Veil shivered. From Thorin’s description she had expected untidy heaps scattered about. What she had _not_ expected was to find a single _huge_ pile, cascading down around the throne and the freestanding, checkerboard-carved pillars for the glowstones’ sconces (completely unlike the tree-like torch pillars of the Woodland Realm’s throne room) like an ocean wave sweeping onto a rocky shore.

The platform had narrow, open walkways leading away from it along the wall in both directions — almost invisible from the floor, Sakura thought, given how they were well-above the rows of glowstone pillars and without wall or railing to draw the eye — but the most direct way down was another zig-zagging stairway disguised as wall carving, the same as the stairs outside leading up to the secret entrance.

As she slowly made her way down the stairs toward the floor, Sakura was further amazed at the sheer _variety_ of stuff piled up below her — coins, yes, and bars, but also vases and goblets, plates and their covers, armor and weapons, jewelry enough for any dozen dynasties scattered carelessly about, all shining softly with the reflected light of the few still-functioning glowstones. The only things keeping it from being the most spectacular sight in her life were the _reek_ that filled the chamber and the feeling in her soul that Death haunted these halls. (And after what Mirkwood did to her, she couldn’t just blame that feeling on nerves.)

_Where did it all_ come _from?_ She wondered, as she tried to estimate just how much treasure was piled up, how many piles it would make between the throne and the entrance, how high, before giving up. She had more important things to worry about, after all, such as the location of the current master of these halls — the one thing she couldn’t see was so much as a glimmer of red or gold scales. _Smaug must sleep farther out, between the gates and his hoard_. Lucky her, she wouldn’t have to sneak past a sleeping dragon, it seemed the secret entrance had been more useful than she’d expected. _So let’s not let that luck go to waste, you have an even tougher job than you imagined_.

Making herself so light that a breeze would have wafted her away, she ghosted down the last of the stairs leading to the throne room floor and cautiously moved out onto the edges of the pile.

Several long, tedious hours passed. She’d had no problem finding the general area where Thorin had said the Arkenstone was most likely to be found, but it was about a third of the way up the pile — high enough that she had to dig down to search, low enough that there was plenty of treasure to slide down and bury her if she wasn’t careful. So she laboriously shifted incalculable wealth to the sides and down in an ever-widening circle to prevent a collapse — and even as careful as she was she couldn’t avoid the occasional clink and tinkle of plates or goblets shifting or coins rolling ‘downhill’, bringing her heart into her throat every time.

As the time flowed by, she’d found it increasingly difficult to keep herself featherlight and veiled from hostile eyes, She had simply never tried to keep herself so light for so long a time, and at last she carefully allowed her full weight to push her almost ankle-deep into the coins. She had taken to sorting the treasure as she dug — weapons and bits and pieces of armor upslope; coins and ingots downslope; plates, goblets, pitchers and silverware (goldware?) toward the stairs she’d come down; exquisite jewelry to the outside; and now as her bare feet slid and sank ankle deep she was happy for her flight of whimsy.

Slowly and carefully, she pushed several swords almost twice as long as she was tall tip-down into the bottom of the upslope edge of her pit and draped some silver-washed, amazingly light chainmail from the hilts, hoping that the makeshift barrier would stabilize the wall of the deepening, widening excavation.

And it did ... for a while, as she extended her makeshift wall along with her pit. But in the end, under the mounting pressure of passing time, she dug too deep and undermined the swords. The inevitable collapse buried her under a tinkling, clinking wave of coins and plate, an ingot bouncing off the back of her head sending her face down flat with star-sparkled vision, her Veil shredded to nothing.

“Ow.” Sakura pushed herself up out of the sea of gold she’d been buried in, sat up as she brushed fiery hair out of her face, glanced up-slope ... and froze at the sight of a massive, red-scaled eyelid peeking out of the mounting pile — Smaug wasn’t between his hoard and the front gates, he was _under_ it!

_Oh. My. God. Okay, Sakura, don’t panic. He’s still asleep, so_ — The eyelid twitched, and she dropped back into her pit. _Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic deep breaths don’t panic_.... Eyes closed, one deep breath after another, she ignored the rustling tinkle of more treasure falling, sliding to bury her again as she fought for the calm she needed to once more draw the Veil about her.

“WELL, THIEF ... I CAN SMELL DWARF ON THE BREEZE, THE STINK OF FISH, BUT I’VE NEVER SMELLED ANYTHING LIKE _YOU_ BEFORE. WHAT KIND OF CREATURE ARE YOU WHO INTERRUPTS MY SLEEP?”

The deep, rough rumble of the Dragon’s voice filled the chamber, and Sakura winced. _Dwarf? Breeze? But how ... oh, crap, both doors to the secret entrance are open, there’s a draft! Okay, kick yourself for being stupid later, you have to get out of here._ Another wave of displaced gold washed over her and she took the opportunity to push herself up out of the pit and slide downslope, praying that she was calm enough to keep herself wrapped in the Veil, that the Veil would even work on a creature as large as a Dragon was supposed to be.... Her slide slowed to a stop, and she rose to her feet and twisted to look behind her, and gasped at the sight.

Smaug was huge ... dinosaur huge ... brontosaurus huge! And like brontosauri there was nothing snake-like about him, even if his neck and tail were long and sinuous. No Chinese dragon here like her mother had told her bedtime stories about, no symbol of wisdom and good luck — no, this was the brute force of nature that Sigurd and St. George had faced. She’d been told before, of course, but it had been an intellectual sort of knowledge. Now, her wide eyes traced the length and breadth of Middle Earth’s red- and gold-scaled apex predator and she felt very, very small indeed. Throughout her War she had often been hunted, sometimes for days, but she had always known that she was at least as dangerous as those hunting her — that given the opportunity, she could turn and savage her pursuers. Now, as she watched Smaug’s gaze roam about the throne room, the distant thought flashed through her mind that this must be what a mouse felt like cowering before a cat.

_But apparently a Veiled mouse_ , she thought as the Dragon’s gaze swept across her without pause. Struggling through her shock and exhaustion to once again make herself light enough to float on a breeze even as she kept herself hidden from sight, she began to inch along the mountained hoard toward the wall and the inconspicuous stairway up to the secret entrance. The lower door was out of sight of the throne room, she could close it behind her without alerting Smaug if she could only reach it —

“SHOW YOURSELF, THIEF!” The angry Dragon’s tail smashed into and across his hoarded wealth, flinging a horizontal hail of gold across the room.

Sakura lifted her hands to cover her face as that hail hammered into her, breath bursting out as an ingot slammed into her chest and another into a knee, knocking her off her feet. She skidded several paces down-slope, the treasure she plowed into heaping up to quickly stop her. Silence filled the chamber as the last tinkling of skipping, rolling coin came to a stop, and she slowly looked up to find Smaug staring down at her.

“THERE YOU ARE, LITTLE THIEF.” Smaug reared up, his massive wings spread wide, and the golden scales covering his chest glowed red as he sucked in a deep breath.

Instantly Sakura was up and running as best she could, slip-sliding across the pile, desperately hoping to reach one of the pillars ... fire washed over her, turning the world red as she closed her eyes and dropped and rolled. She beat at burning hair with blistered hands, wincing at the sharp pain of bursting blisters on her neck, even as she rolled back to her feet. _Why aren’t I dead — the gold!_ Smaug couldn’t make his breath _really_ hot without risk of fusing his pile into a single molten mass.

The Dragon must have come to the same conclusion, because he roared down the pile toward her, the cresting wave of treasure arcing ahead of him knocking her over again. She somehow managed to regain her feet, plunged down the pile herself as fast as she could manage ... and a massive crystal glowing white arced through the air over her head. _The Arkenstone!_ It couldn’t be anything else, and she snatched it out of the air on the bounce. But Smaug was almost upon her....

Just as she was sliding by another of the freestanding glowstone-sconced pillars she threw the Arkenstone ahead of her to draw Smaug’s attention, grabbed the pillar and whipped behind it hopefully out of sight, and her weight reduced to no more than a cat scampered up it, tiny fingers and toes digging into the checkerboard carving for purchase.

She reached the top glowstone sconce just as Smaug passed below her, his shoulder smashing into the next pillar in line and snapping it off at the base. As that pillar thundered down, she closed her eyes and did her best to ignore her heart hammering away in her chest as she fought for calm. _I’m a speck on the wall, a leaf of parchment on the wind, a piece of tattered cape caught on a sconce ... nothing to see hear_....

“THIEF! _THIEF!!!_ ” Smaug’s bellow seemed to shake the chamber, and Sakura opened her eyes to find the Dragon twisting around, his swinging tail sending another pillar thundering down. Then Smaug reared up, his jaws widened as his chest again glowed red with heat, and more fire gushed out, sweeping across the hoard as he whipped his head about. He didn’t know where she was. She was safe!

_Yeah, right ... safe_. Sakura slowly, silently pulled herself up past the sconce and onto the flat top of the pillar, where she sat cross-legged and watched Smaug rampage about below her. Now what?

/\

For the Dwarves, the night had at first been joyful, exhilarating as the open door of the secret entrance had validated all the stress and pain of their long journey. Then it had been eager as they waited ... and waited ... and the eagerness had turned to anxiety.

There were a few moments of distraction as, at Dwalin’s suggestion and Thorin’s order, they moved all the baggage into the tunnel and, using the dim light of the first glowstone that Nori was sent to fetch, examined the door to make sure they could open it from the inside if they needed to close it. But after that they simply sat or lay about the entrance’s porch (as far from the reek of the tunnel, though that faded) wherever they could find some space or comfort and waited, and as the hours passed — except for Thorin, Dwalin and Nori (the King, the Warrior, and the Poacher) — one by one drifted off to sleep ... until a booming roar echoing up out of the tunnel jerked them all awake.

“What was that!?” Kili demanded, jolted to his feet and swords in hand, staring at the tunnel as another roar boomed out.

Behind him, Balin laboriously clambered to his feet. “That, my boy, was a Dragon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, no long, obsequious/boastful conversation this time, Sakura’s a bit more ‘get a move on, seize the day’-ish than Bilbo. And no knocked-over pillar shaking the entire mountain enough to be noticeable to the Dwarves. I mean, I don't care how big Smaug and the pillar seemed, really?


	29. A rescue is being thought of!

By the time Nori returned from his brief scouting run to where the Dwarves were waiting at the secret passage’s lower entrance, Thorin was holding on to his patience with both hands. Not that he’d been waiting long, the poacher had gone ahead of them as they’d made their way down into Erebor’s depths, but Sakura ...

“She’s alive.”

“Yes!”

Dwalin smacked Fili’s shoulder for his exuberant whisper as Thorin’s shoulders sagged in relief.

Balin, ever the practical advisor, asked, “How do you know? Where is she?”

“Don’t know, I didn’t see her. But Smaug doesn’t know, either — he’s still prowling ‘round his hoard looking for her. If she were dead, he’d know it.”

That wasn’t the most solid of reasoning — the Dragon could have eaten the tiny Hobbit with one bite and simply be prowling around looking for other intruders — but Thorin would hold on to what hope he could with both hands. “So if you don’t _know_ where she is, where do you _think_ she is?”

Nori thought for a long moment, then slowly said, “I would guess ... on top of one of the glowstone pillars in the middle of that mountain of treasure, same way she said she was in the Elvenking’s throne room. Anywhere else, she could have slipped away and circled ‘round, gotten back to us by now. Those pillars are the only place I can think she might be trapped.”

Thorin frowned, staring past Nori down the passage toward the throne room as he summoned up old memories of its layout, and the rooms and passageways around it. Of course, that also brought up memories of the city before the Dragon: full of bustle and noise, merchants hawking their wares in the marketplace, running children, gossiping neighbors, the steel-on-steel of marching soldiers at the changing of the guard — and the sick greed in his grandfather’s eyes as the King Under the Mountain had gazed at the throne room’s great stacks of gold shimmering in the flickering torchlight, the only light with the glowstones covered.

_Enough! We have a friend to rescue_. A few moments’ more thought, and he turned to the Company. “Balin, Dwalin, Oin, you remember how the walkway circles the entire throne room?” They nodded. “Good. We’ll split up and _quietly_ make our way to the main corridors. Balin, take Fili and Kili and make for the north side. Dwalin, take Dori, Nori and Ori; you have the west. Oin, take Gloin, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur to the south. Dwalin, Balin, Oin, you all remember the way to the peak watch?”

The three nodded again, Dwalin smiling in remembrance. “Of course, it was every young recruit’s favorite posting, seeing the wide world for scores of miles in every direction.”

“So long as the weather _allowed_ those young recruits to see the wide world — unlike, say, when a blizzard blew down from the north.” Thorin grinned at Dwalin’s grimace — he imagined Dwalin’s memories of the ice-cold were any more pleasant than his own. “It’s also the only way out of the Mountain other than the Front Gate and the secret entrance. Wait until everyone’s in position, then get Smaug’s attention, pull him away from here, give Sakura a chance to sneak out, then escape into the city and head for the peak watch. I’ll wait for her here, then we’ll join you. And don’t forget Smaug’s fire, use corridors that open into large rooms _quickly_ , so you can get out of the way.”

/\

Sakura sat on top of her pillar in lotus position, hands on her knees and eyes closed, listening to the tinkling rustle of the prowling Dragon below, the deep breaths as Smaug tried to track her scent — the Veil couldn’t _eliminate_ her scent, not when he knew she was somewhere around, but it should ... spread it around, make it seem to be anywhere and everywhere, no specific spot.

Smaug’s ranting attempts to talk her into revealing herself had faded away, leaving only the tinkling, grinding sounds of his patrol. By now his searching would have pushed and scattered his piled-up hoard out across the throne room floor even more than it had the last time she’d taken a peek, and she wondered if he realized he was creating an ad hoc alert system.

Not that she was going anywhere anytime soon, for now all she could do was sit and maintain her Veil, wait for Smaug to settle down, and pray that the Dwarves didn’t do anything stupid —

“Hey, you overgrown, inbred lizard, over here!”

Sakura didn’t even twitch at the shout, so deeply was she centered on the Veil. Opening her eyes, she turned her head to look toward the throne room’s massive entrance.

There, on the small platform above the entrance, connected to the same high walkway that circled the rest of the room, stood Gloin right in front of an open door. The miner made a rude gesture at Smaug’s room-shaking roar of anger and dashed through the door.

“THIEF! COWARD!” Smaug bellowed as he thundered across the room, passing below her in a spray of treasure. Rising up on his hindquarters, the Dragon sucked in a deep breath, then flame filled the doorway.

_I_ really _hope Gloin’s a fast runner_ , Sakura thought as she rose to a crouch. With Smaug’s gouting flames well away from his stolen hoard that fire could burn _much_ hotter, and if his shrunken vocabulary was any indication whatever control the Dragon had over his temper was long gone.

And she might actually have the opportunity to escape.

Arrows skipped off the back of the Dragon’s head. “Oy! Over here!”

Smaug’s massive head whipped around on its long neck at the shout from behind them, and Sakura turned to find Fili and Kili on the walkway on the other side of the room from the entrance, bows in hand. Two more arrows flashed across, and Sakura twisted in time to see them vanish into the Dragon’s open mouth.

Smaug _shrieked_ , head whipping back, body twisting to reveal a red-white glowing chest as flames swept across the high ceiling, and ... was that a dark patch in the middle of that red-white glow?

Sakura yelped as Smaug’s tail slammed across her pillar, the impact knocking loose several of the faint glowstones from their sconces. The Dragon _leaped_ , his shoulder smacking into her pillar and snapping it off at the base, sending Sakura flying through the air ahead of him to skid across the flattened pile of treasure. She lay gasping for breath as four pillar-like legs slammed down into the heaped coins all around her, staring up at the scaled chest only feet away — and a single missing scale. _Wha’d’ya know, Sigrid was right — Lord Girion really did manage to knock loose one of the scales_.

Then the distant thought vanished as that scaled chest again glowed red-white, heat washing over her as she again heard the _whoosh_ of flame.

“Over here!”

Sakura stifled a giggle at the sound of Dwalin’s voice — it seemed the Dwarves weren’t much more articulate than Smaug. Smaug wasn’t amused, though. He twisted in place toward the side of the throne room across from the platform leading to the secret entrance, and one massive foot slid through the piled wealth to hammer into Sakura, picking her up and throwing her off the pile to slam into the wall not far from the stairs she’d come down in another hail of coins even as another pillar came smashing down between her and the Dragon. Bouncing off the wall, she dropped to the floor where she lay gasping, fighting through the stars spangling her vision, her shaking from the adrenalin rush, to reach for the calm she needed. _Just the tinkling of treasure kicked up and scattered, dropped pillars shifting as they settle ..._

The fresh _whoosh_ of fire told her that Smaug’s attention was elsewhere. Slowly, she rose to a crouch and moved along the wall towards stairs, shuffling to push any scattered loot out of her way, then carefully, silently made her way up the stairs to the platform she’d used to reach the throne room floor. She was hoping desperately that Smaug would keep his attention fixed on Dwalin’s doorway just a little longer, she had no idea how well the Veil was working through the pain radiating across her back and skull from the impact and the scabs ripped off broken blisters, but she wasn’t going to get better opportunity to get out.

Once at the top, she lay flat and looked around. She’d been right about the heat of Smaug’s fire, he’d definitely been restraining himself when he flamed her. At the three doorways Gloin, Fili, Kili and Dwalin had used the stone was glowing red-white, steam rising up — at the one Dwalin used the stone actually looked melted! _There’s nothing you can do for them, you’ll just have to hope they were able to escape the flames. Time for you to —_

She broke off her thought when Smaug roared once more, lifting his head to spray fire across the high ceiling before dropping back down to all fours, and the room again seemed to shake with his bellowing anger. “SCURRY ABOUT, LITTLE MORSELS, HIDE, BUT YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE! DAY OR NIGHT I WILL SEE ALL!”

Around the corner, back in the corridor that led to her platform, Sakura found Thorin waiting for her.

/\

Thorin had been shocked at her appearance, but had managed to hold back his questions and remonstrances until he’d all but carried her far enough up the corridor that the Dragon couldn’t hear them. He’d made certain she was all right (mostly, she thought — burned hair was purely cosmetic, bruises and bleeding blisters she could live with, and she didn’t _think_ she had a concussion), and only then told her where they were meeting the rest of the Company.

Now, Sakura held the dim glowstone in her hand close to the rough stone wall. Early on in their ascent the walls and ceilings had been smooth where they weren’t carved, and polished to a mirror finish to increase the effectiveness of the glowstones. But as they went up one floor after another, that mirror gloss had faded away along with the smooth finish. (She’d asked how the Dwarves had managed to get such a smooth mirror-polish; Thorin had just said that, like Elves and Hobbits, Dwarves had their own gifts — and asked her not to speak of them to outsiders.) Now, she was running her fingers along a long, thin horizontal half-circle slice in the rough-hewn wall like the inside of a tube, frowning. She _knew_ she had seen that same effect before, as if someone had bored a round hole into the rock and then broken away half — _Right, the History of the West museum we visited before the War, the section made to look like we were in a mine. Makes sense, human or Dwarf a mine’s a mine_. She turned to face Thorin. “So why didn’t you finish this section?”

Thorin chuckled. “The only ones to come up here were the skywatch, and they were always the youngest recruits. We couldn’t let them feel too self-important, now could we?” Then his chuckles died. “Not that they didn't do their duty when the time came, for all the good it did — no one really believed how fast a dragon could fly.”

His voice had grown shaky, and Sakura turned away to again examine the wall ... and give him a moment to collect himself. “How much further?”

“A few more flights, we’re almost there.”

Sakura winced. “Then let’s get this over, my legs hurt.”

As she’d hoped, Thorin took the opening she’d given him. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and with a sly smile said, “You know I could just carry you on my back the rest of the way, it would be just like when I carried Arlais when she was little — _very_ little.”

Sakura huffed and slapped his arm — hard for her, but she thought gentle for a Dwarf — and hid a smile when Thorin chuckled again ... just before turning and walking away. “Come on, let’s get this over with.” Though she was seriously considering taking him up on his jest, to hell with her pride....

Balin met them one flight up, and Sakura help her heart clench at the expression on his face. She asked, “What’s wrong?”

“We won’t be able to get out and circle around to pick up our baggage as we’d planned. Smaug must have noticed people escaping this way, he closed it.”

Thorin eyed Sakura as she leaned against the wall. “It can’t be re-opened? We have strong backs and Gloin’s a miner, surely he’ll know how to buttress it against a further cave-in.”

But Balin shook his head. “Smaug didn’t just collapse the entrance — it’s _melted_. We’d have to carve our way out.”

Thorin sighed. “I suppose we can simply leave the same way we came. So long as we’re quiet enough we can get to the lower entrance to the secret door without Smaug realizing we’re back. We can escape with our lives even if we failed to find the Arkenstone.”

“The Arkenstone’s not a problem, I actually had it in my hands at one point. I threw it away because I had something more important to be doing with my hands, but I know where I threw it.” Sakura gazed thoughtfully at Balin — he wasn’t happy enough at that news ...or too shaken to care. “What aren’t you telling us, Balin, what else did you find up there?”

Thorin’s own gaze sharpened, and Balin sighed, rubbed at his face. “Very perceptive, lass ... at least one of the crèches took refuge there, we found their bodies.”

Sakura frowned for a moment as she struggled to remember the significance of ‘crèches’. It couldn’t be good, the way Thorin had stiffened. His mouth opened and closed a few times, then it was his turn to rub at his face, suddenly looking old. “And they won’t be the only ones. We’ll find bodies scattered throughout the city, those that didn’t make it out and died of thirst when the pumps stopped and the cisterns emptied.”

Sakura’s eyes widened as one of the discussions about Dwarven culture during her recovery at Beorn’s home came back to her — with the low Dwarven birthrate thanks to the unbalanced male-female ratio and the number of women that chose not to marry at all, those women that _did_ marry were encouraged to bear children even if they didn’t want to take time away from their professions to raise them, and give them to couples that _did_ want to raise children, the more the merrier. And _that_ meant ...

She whirled and dashed for the next flight up, ignoring Balin’s shout as she passed him and her own aching legs and feet bruised by the stone floors as she pounded up the stairs. She reached the top and past a startled Gloin, only to be grabbed around the waist by Dwalin. “Let me go!” she shouted as she struggled in his arms.

“No, lass, you’ve seen enough dead bodies. You don’t need to add more, decades dead and not even yours.” When she continued to struggle, Dwalin added, “Not even all the others have seen ‘em, only Balin, Fili and Kili — they got here first, stopped the rest of us.”

Slowly her struggling eased until she went limp, to find herself sitting in Dwalin’s lap ... during her struggles he’d leaned against the wall and eased them down to the floor.

Balin and Thorin had caught up with them, and as her gasping for air eased she realized they were discussing what to do next. “— let Smaug camp inside the Front Gate waiting for us, while Sakura searches the throne room for the Arkenstone,” Balin was saying. “Once she’s found it we can escape and make for the Iron Hills while Smaug thinks we’re still cowering inside the depths of the city. He doesn’t know about the secret entrance so he’ll expect us to try to sneak past him, or die of thirst or hunger when we don’t show up. He won’t learn differently ‘til we show up with an army.”

Sakura pushed herself up out of Dwalin’s lap. “It won’t work, Smaug will know we didn’t come in through the Front Gate. He’ll be hunting for us.”

Balin and Thorin turned to face her as behind her Dwalin pushed himself to his feet. Balin asked, “How will he know?”

“When he woke up he could smell me — not well enough to find me, the Veil was enough to stop that at least. But he could smell you Dwarves as well, on the breeze from the secret entrance.”

The three stared at her uncomprehendingly ... and not just them, at some point the rest of the Company had joined them. Then Nori — the poacher — said something in Khuzdul Sakura couldn’t understand, but from the tone of his voice and the twitches from the other Dwarves must have been vile. “Our scent! It won’t be at the Front Gate — you’re right, he’ll know we found another way in.”

Sakura nodded. “And out in the open we’ll be helpless, he’ll just burn us down from the air. We’re going to have to find a way to kill him here, inside Erebor where we can get at him.”

The Dwarves’ eyes widened, then Dwalin turned and slammed the side of his fist against the wall. “Ow!” He jerked his hand away, and Sakura saw two thin red lines running along the side of his hand. Glancing at the wall, she giggled when she realized he’d cut his hand on the sharp edges of another of the excavation bore holes. Bore holes ... She stepped over and ran her finger along the edge of the tube-like impression, the memory of Smaug’s chest directly above her flashing through her mind, as he sucked in his breath for another blast of fire — and the small patch on his chest that _hadn’t_ glowed red-white. Remembered the Hobbits’ tales of Gandalf’s fireworks, that she had just assumed were wizardly magic. She whispered, “I don’t believe it ... you have gunpowder. You have gunpowder!”

“What was that, lass?”

She jerked around at Gloin’s voice and realized that she’d switched to English. She bared her teeth in a rictus-grin for a moment before switching back to Westron. “I know how we can kill him.”


	30. Taking the Shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, a month since my last chapter and that also for this story. I have been working on another chapter for _Ranma, the Naïve Succubus_ , but that chapter quickly became unsafe for work — and during breaks at work is where much of my writing takes place. So, I’ve been working on this story at work and _RtNS_ in the evening and on weekends, when the weekends haven’t been too busy. Also, now that things at work have finally slowed down again I’ve been having trouble getting back into my old writing routine. I am getting there, though!

In the end, Dwalin ended up carrying Sakura in his arms as they made their way back down from the Upper Halls through the Lower Halls and into the Deeps — the exhaustion from her long hours covered by her Veil and the pain from the burns and beating she had suffered had outpaced her endurance, and a tumble down yet another stairwell thanks to a weary misstep finally overcame the Dwarves’ willingness to respect her pride. She’d protested when Dwalin swept her off her feet, of course, but her protests had been half-hearted to save face and she’d given in soon enough. She’d even found herself dozing on Dwalin’s shoulder in spite of the occasional painful jolts of the journey.

She came fully awake only when Dwalin tried to lower her to the floor without rousing her. Sitting up and leaning against a nearby wall, she rubbed her eyes and looked around at the room they’d ended up in — dimly lit by failing glowstone like the rest (those rooms and corridors that had any still-functional glowstones at all), with large bins set in one wall and a stone table along the other, bowls stacked up and scoops hanging from racks. Thick dust covered everything. “Where are we?”

“Where blasting powder was stored, and measured out.” Sakura twisted to find Gloin lowering her pack to the floor along with his own. Looking around, she realized that the rest of the Dwarves had their own packs, except Thorin had Dwalin’s — she’d been even more out of it than she’d realized, they’d circled around to pick up their supplies and she hadn’t even noticed.

Oin had dropped his own pack and was now opening hers. “Let’s get some lembas in you, then we can all use some sleep before we go walking into the Dragon’s mouth.”

“No!” Oin paused, looking up from the leaf-wrapped wafer in his hands, and Sakura suddenly realized that she was famished. She reached for the lembas and he handed it to her. “I didn’t mean not eat, just that we can’t wait. Smaug could smell fish as well as Dwarf and me. What if he decides to go after Lake-town?” She practically inhaled the wafer, and reached for another. Finishing it off as quickly as the first, she accepted a third. (There wasn’t really any point in rationing supplies for the trip to the Iron Hills, not anymore — either they were all going to die, or Dain would be coming to them.)

With the third one half finished and her appetite finally appeased, she rewrapped the rest of the wafer and handed it back to Oin, then looked up at the rest of the Company. “We’ll need a steel pot small enough for one person to handle easily that we can attach two chains each the length of my arm on opposite sides, with heavy daggers attached to the end of the chains.”

Thorin gazed at her for a long moment, then nodded to the others. “Look around, see what you can find.” The rest of the Company scattered, and with a grunt he lowered himself to sit leaning against the wall beside her. “So how is this supposed to work?”

Sakura turned her head so she could look at Thorin, to find him watching her.“What do you use blasting powder for?” (She’d been too anxious to explain before, only insisting that they needed to get to what she was told was called ‘blasting powder’ as quickly as possible.)

“Initial carving out for tunnels, booby traps for anything that might come up from the Deeps.”

“And you’ve only worked with powder? No blocks?”

“No.”

“Right, to you wouldn’t know about shaped charges.” Thorin shook his head, so she continued, “My people eventually learned how to shape our version of blasting powder into blocks solid enough to stamp their makers’ name in the side. Then someone decided to test out a ‘safe’ —a steel box with a locked door,” she added at Thorin’s questioning look at the English word, “and found a mirror image of the maker’s name stamped into the steel panel.”

Thorin frowned thoughtfully. “The ... dent in the block focused the explosion, somehow?”

Yup ... and Smaug is missing a scale, just like the Lake-towners say. We get a pot full of blasting powder over the hole, the explosion should turn his heart to so much shredded mulch.”

Thorin nodded. “Like one of our murder-holes, then, only portable. But actually getting that pot in place will be no easy task.”

“I got some ideas about that, too.” Sakura yawned, then added, “Piece a’ cake.”

We will discuss that when the others have returned, get some sleep.”

“Good idea, need ta be ... my best,” she mumbled, and smiled sleepily. “Anyone tell you ... handsome when ... not frowning all the time?” She let her eyes drift shut, giggling faintly at Thorin’s bemused expression.

/\

Sakura cautiously made her way down the stairs from the high walkway circling the throne room to the floor, close enough to the wall that she could lean against it every few steps with the shoulder braced under a coil of rope to steady herself. She would have used a hand for that, but she had both arms wrapped around the cloak-wrapped contraption the Dwarves had put together while she slept — one cooking pot with the handle removed and light chains run through the holes, fine wire binding the ends of the chains to a pair of large daggers. All just as she had described, and as heavy as she’d feared.

She’d actually ended up sleeping several hours, while the Dwarves slapped together her little contraption, she just hoped that rest would give her the strength to keep her hold on the Veil in spite of her aches and pains (even worse after her brief flirtation with Morpheus). She could have made those aches just go away, but had serious doubts about her ability to concentrate on both the Veil and suppressing the pain.

Reaching the floor, she leaned against the wall for a time, taking deep breaths, staring at the massive beast curled on top of his treasure with his eyes constantly sweeping across the room, as she waited for the rate of the pulse pounding in her ears to ease off.

Finally, as rested as she could expect until she was done, she carefully sidled along the wall, sliding her feet to push the coins still scattered across the floor out of the way without a sound until the glowstone pillar she wanted came between her and Smaug’s hungry gaze. She sighed with relief — step one done, on to step two.

Sliding the rope off her shoulder, she tied one end around the handle of the pot and the other around her waist, made sure the cloak was still wrapped around it along with the chains and daggers, made _absolutely_ sure that Smaug couldn’t see her from around the column even without the Veil, and slowly climbed.

On reaching the top, she sat and shook for a few minutes — she was _definitely_ getting only one shot at this. _Perhaps Thorin was right, and we ... I should have waited for a day, at least gotten more sleep_. But no, she’d stiffened up even in the few hours slumber she’d gotten, more would have left her barely able to move. And what if in the meantime Smaug moved out of the throne room? There was no guarantee that she’d be able to pull this off anywhere else.

Then she heard shifting coin, and glanced over her shoulder to see Smaug’s head rising, his body shifting from lying down to a crouch as his gaze swept the walkway. Somehow he _knew_ ... or at least, knew something. _Well ... fuck_. (Sakura wasn’t normally given to obscenity, but the situation just seemed to call for it.)

Moving as quickly as she could while keeping her motions smooth, she untied the rope from around her waist, lay down with her legs tucked up against her chest, and drew the rope taut, fed just a hint of Strength into her arms and shoulders, then began to carefully pull the pot up the side of the column — the cloak wrapped around it should keep its occasional bounce against the column quiet but it could _not_ start swinging or she was dead, there was no way she’d be able to hide where it ... and she ... was.

Then the pot finally reached her she unwrapped the cloak and strips of clothe from around it and made sure the fuse set into the wad of parchment stuffed into the pot’s mouth was in place, then wrapped the cloak around herself and tied it in place with some of the cloth strips (including the hood about her face, except for an opening to see out of) before wrapping the remaining strips around her arms, hands, and legs. Her preparations done, she again sat for a time, gathering her strength for one last effort as she waited for the Dwarves to make their move. Nori should have seen the pot rise up the column, and considering the count of her heartbeats ... she rose to a crouch and fed Strength into her arms and shoulders, back, legs and thighs. Picking up the two daggers, she lifted the pot by the attached chains and spread her arms wide so the pot was resting against her chest with the mouth pointed out. She lightened her weight until she had to grip the edge of the column’s top with her toes lest an errant breeze blew her away. Her mind sang with the effort of keeping all three techniques in play....

“THIEF, I KNOW YOU HAVE RETURNED, YOU STINK OF FISH. SHOW YOURSELF, OR YOUR TOWN WILL BURN BEFORE I HUNT YOU DOWN LIKE THE COWARDLY MOUSE YOU ARE!” The Dragon’s shout seemed to shake the room, and Sakura winced as it hammered into her ears. The hours that he had spent waiting as the Company hatched its plan hadn’t calmed him at all. (Well, _her_ plan, and it had taken too long to argue the rest into it once she told them.)

The roar couldn’t have been better timed, from the Company’s point of view, and Ori appeared in the high doorway above the enormous main entrance and shouted, “Even mice have teeth, oh pendulous one!”

Smaug whirled at the shout, all four feet plowing through the heaped treasure and, as Sakura had hoped, _this_ time he didn’t waste time charging across the room. He simply rose up, his massive chest beginning to glow white-red hot as he sucked in his breath — and Sakura exploded from her perch like a released spring. She soared across the room to slam into him, daggers desperately thrust up under scales even as her chest hammering into the pot trapped between her and Smaug knocked the breath out of her lungs. Her head and legs bounced against Smaug’s chest, bursting into flame from the heat, and she let go of the daggers and fell, praying that the fuse had lit as easily as her cloak and bindings, twisting to get her feet under her...

She hit the treasure pile and managed to roll in spite of sliding feet, as a thunderclap seemed to shake the room and the pot blew through the open entrance to _clang_ away across whatever lay in the dark beyond. Slapping at her burning clothes, she frantically looked up. She had to know which way Smaug was collapsing, get out of the way —

Smaug wasn’t collapsing. He was staggering back on his hind legs, wings spread wide, weaving drunkenly, and dark, smoking blood was spattering across the heaped wealth, but — but there was a massive hole across his chest, big enough to fit _Dwalin’s_ head, pulsing blood ... right below the missing scale.

She’d missed.

Sakura scrambled almost swimming through the sliding coin, yelped as an ornate inlayed wooden box kicked forward by the staggering Dragon smashed her shoulder into the golden mass, crawled behind another glowstone column, and was knocked forward as Smaug slammed into the column, snapping it off at the base and sending it and her flying. She hit and rolled, head again ringing as the column smashed into the wall, looked up ... and stared at the sight of the end of Smaug’s tail vanishing through the entrance way.

“He ran. He ran! Ow!” She clutched at her aching head for a moment, ignoring the cheers from the Dwarves popping out of doorways along the walkway high above, until her eyes widened at a sudden thought. _Lake-town_. She was instantly on her feet and running for the doorway, ignoring surprised shouts from the Company. Recklessly pushing Strength into her legs and throwing her weight to the wind, she bounded after the fleeing Dragon, bouncing from floor and wall and even ceiling a few times as she followed the spattered trail of smoking blood up wide staircases and winding passageways.

She really did make good time, considering her exhaustion and injuries — she only almost knocked herself out once, though she had a new set of bruises by the time she was bounding down a wide, straight open road toward the Front Gate in thirty-foot-long leaps. She arrived in time to watch the Dragon soar away toward the moon-dappled waters of the Long Lake ... and the dark shadow of Lake-town.

/\

Thorin was gasping for breath as he ran, taking the stairs of the wide, spiraling staircase leading to the Gate level two at a time. He could not _believe_ that their Hobbit had actually gone charging off after a Dragon! Alone! What was the child _thinking?_

_Not a child and you know it, however young she is, not after all she’d experienced_.

The distant thought was true enough but irrelevant, and he desperately trying to force just a little more speed out of his pumping legs. He was actually in the middle-front of the pack, the younger and lighter ones — and Dwalin, for all that the warrior wasn’t _that_ much younger than his brother — pulling away from the rest and the oldest and heaviest falling behind. Poor Bombur had been wheezing like an elephant and out of sight in the gloom of the dim glowstones behind them even before they’d reached the Grand Staircase, but Thorin had no doubt that the heaviest of the Company was still soldiering on.

“Sakura?” “Wait!” “What’s happening, lass?”

Thorin stumbled to a halt at the confused shouts from up ahead. Peering up the stairs into the gloom, he saw the tiny form of their Hobbit coming around the curve in the staircase, the members of the Company that had run ahead following her and demanding to know what was going on.

As she passed him, she said, “Smaug is headed for Lake-town, we have to find the Arkenstone and be out of here before he comes back.”

Thorin’s heart froze at her stiff, cold tone — whether she was angry, happy, snarky, or even haunted by her dreams and memories, she was _alive_ , and the thought of the state of her mind and heart to sound so lifeless scared him. But she was right yet again, finding the Arkenstone and escape came first.

He looked around as he turned around to walk beside Sakura. “Dwalin, you should be strong enough to ring the greeting gong alone. Go to the Front Gate and ring it when Smaug begins to return, then hide. Once he passes you, make your way out the Front Gate and circle around to below the upper door to the secret entrance. We’ll be waiting for you there.”

Dwalin nodded and turned without a word to head up the stairway again.

“Nori, follow Dwalin, hide at the top of the passageway that joins with the Main Road. You’re our warning in case the greeting gong’s mechanism has seized up over the decades. When you see Smaug come through the Front Gate, run down and warn us he’s coming. If we aren’t in the Great Hall of Thrain we’ll be waiting at the lower door to the secret entrance.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Nori turned and hurried up the steps to catch up with Dwalin, and Thorin stopped to gaze questioningly after him for a moment, before hurrying to catch up with Sakua again. The poacher hadn’t been that formal with him since he’d told the Company to drop all the titles and honorifics before they ever reached Bag End. _Do I really sound that grim?_ Catching the sidelong looks from the others — mostly at Sakura but some at him — he suppressed a sigh. _I suppose I do_.

The Company marched on, turn after turn down the spiraling staircase, picking up the slower members as they went until Bombur came into view collapsed against the wall, red-faced and gasping for breath.

Sakura kept right on walking without so much as a hitch in her stride.

Now Thorin’s unease morphed to outright fear, and from the additional shifting glances of the rest at Sakura and each other they were feeling the same. But no one said anything, Thorin simply motioning for Bifur and Gloin — the two miners — to remain behind and help Bombur.

Then they’d finally reached the bottom of the staircase and Sakura strode through the huge doorway into the Great Hall and came to a stop so suddenly Thorin almost ran her over. She looked around in the dim light (even dimmer than before, for having multiple columns knocked down and glowstones buried in the cascaded treasure) as the other seven Dwarves filed in, then pointed toward the lower part of the piled hoard not far from the bottom of the stairs leading up to the corridor that the secret entrance opened onto. “It should be ab-bout th-th-th-there....” And like a closing book she folded forward and collapsed to her knees, wrapping her arms around her as she shook with wrenching sobs.

The others instantly started toward her.

“No!” They froze at Thorin’s command, and he waved toward the spot Sakura had indicated. “Search for the Arkenstone, I’ll deal with Sakura. Go!” he ordered when they hesitated, and they reluctantly turned away — except for Balin, who stepped over next to his king as Thorin knelt and scooped up their Hobbit. She struggled for a moment, her wails intensifying, but his grip merely tightened and after a moment she clutched at his jacket and buried her face in his chest, her wails fading into hiccupping sobs.

With a sigh, Thorin carefully stepped over to the stairs to the secret entrance and sat down with his back to the wall and Sakura in his lap. As Balin sat beside him, he gently stroked the hair that was normally fiery red but now was covered with dust where it wasn’t burnt. There were still hints of that ethereal beauty he’d seen at Bag End, under the char, bruises, blisters, dust ... but only a hint, and he found himself wishing that she hadn’t come along on their Quest.

“If she hadn’t, you’d be dead and the rest of us would be trying to make our way back to the Blue Mountains with the news. Remember, she saved your life just before the Eagles rescued us.”

Realizing that he’d spoken aloud, Thorin glanced at his advisor for a moment before refocusing on the Hobbit in his lap ... who, he was grateful to see, had given in to her exhaustion and fallen asleep in spite of pain and grief. He sighed. “True enough ... and our rescue from the Trolls and the Spiders and the escape from Thranduil’s dungeons after. But when the tunnel collapses, why is _she_ the one that always pays the price to dig us out?”

Balin smiled sadly. “Remember Gandalf’s vision, the lass’s own story of how she arrived here. Some people are simply the center of events, will they or nill they. If she is the key to our success, well ... a key is worthless if it isn’t used. We shall simply have to help her recover in mind and body when this is all over.”

“You are right, old friend.” Thorin looked over at the others still digging into the golden mound where Sakura had pointed, then glared at the central pile of heaped treasure and growled, “This had better be worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of using a primitive shaped charge to take out Smaug is another borrowing from Araceil’s marvelous story. (Araceil, when will you start writing again, we miss you!) The Dwarves having gunpowder, of course, comes from Tolkien’s original works ... if only in passing, and certainly not weaponized!


	31. On Death Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from Sun Tzu's _Art of War_. On death ground, where retreat is not an option, you fight.

Tauriel stood by the main room’s window, still dressed in the leathers she’d arrived in, staring out across the town as she kept watch for Bard’s return — the slumbering town, she would have thought, if there hadn’t been people slipping from house to house, and _way_ too many boats making their way along the waterway that ran alongside Bard’s family home.

Something was wrong. Bard had been gone much too long (especially considering he’d left his children in the care of a stranger), there had been some kind of alarm not long after he’d left, and now all the people moving about a town that should have been dead to the world. Those had petered off over time, but still ...

Her sense of unease had driven her to rebuckle on her sword and extra knives before half the night was gone.

Her eyes kept shifting north, toward the distant bulk of Lonely Mountain dark against the stars. She wondered if this had anything to do with the Dwarves on their Quest? By this point she had little hope of catching up with them before they reached Erebor, and —

She stiffened as a red spark came to life on the Mountain, eyes narrowing. What could that ... The spark didn’t stay on the Mountain, rising in the night sky, and she breathed, “The Dragon.”

A moment later she whirled and dashed for the door to the girls’ bedroom. Throwing open the door, she shouted, “Tilda, Sigrid, get up now! The Dragon’s coming!” Ignoring the children’s startled shouts, she dashed over to the room Bain shared with his father when Bard wasn’t out hunting and collecting barrels and hammered on the door. “Bain, get up! The Dragon’s coming!”

She hammered on the door and repeated her shout, and when this time Bain shouted back an acknowledgment she whirled to dash back to the girls’ room to find them hastily pulling off their night clothes. “No time for that, bring them with you. Do you have a boat?”

“Yes, a small one underneath the house,” Sigrid replied as she pulled her bedgown back down and yanked open the chest for her and Tilda’s clothes.

“Good, let’s go.” Tauriel grabbed up her bow and quiver just as Bain came stumbling out of his room, bouncing on one foot as he tried to pull his boot on the other, a short, black javelin-like weapon tucked under one arm, his father’s bow and quiver over one shoulder.

Tilda passed Tauriel for the stairs down, but Sigrid dashed past her brother into the room he’d just exited. “Bain, mother’s chest!”

Bain stiffened for a moment, then finished stamping his foot into his boot and handed the javelin to Tauriel. “That’s one of the Black Arrows our great-grandfather fired at the Dragon when he came, please don’t lose it. Tilda can show you the boat, me and Sigrid will be right behind you.” He unslung the sheathed bow and quiver and handed those to her as well.

Tauriel opened her mouth to object that they didn’t have _time_ , but he disappeared back into the bedroom before she had a chance. She hesitated for a moment, then turned to dash down the stairs after Tilda. They might not have time, but arguing about it would just waste more.

She found Tilda trying to lever open a trap door in the floor of what she’d thought was a closet on the bottom floor. Hastily pulling the door up, she ignored the ladder to drop through as Tilda gathered up the clothes she’d dropped to open the door. Below, Tauriel found a tiny wharf with an equally tiny boat — barely big enough to fit her and all the children, especially with the chest Sigrid had mentioned. Hopefully they wouldn’t have to leave it behind.

Tilda quickly joined her, and Tauriel was about her tell her to get changed out of her night clothes when the Elf’s sharp ears heard the sounds of the other children bumbling down the stairs above. “Dump the clothes on your bench and sit on them,” she instructed instead. The young girl did as instructed, Tauriel crouching on the wharf to steady the boat as she got in before placing the Black Arrow along with bows and quivers beside her, and the two waited in silence until Bain appeared climbing down the ladder. A simple wooden chest followed (thankfully not as large as Tauriel had feared, Bard could have easily handled it himself), Sigrid lowering it as Bain grabbed it from below. A few moments later had the children and chest in the boat, Tauriel standing in the middle pole in hand and pushing them out from under the house into the waterway. She would have liked to stay under the houses, but that simply wasn’t possible — they had to at least cross several waterways on their way to the shore.

Once out from under the house, she glanced north along the waterway for a moment and felt her mouth go dry. The red dragon-spark had grown in the short time they’d taken to evacuate — that spark was now a circle, and she thought she saw hints of wings in the dark around it, stars obscured by the massive Dragon’s form. They weren’t going to be able to make it to shore before Smaug arrived, not even close.

Turning her attention back to the task at hand, ignoring Sigrid and Bain’s gasps, Tauriel began to pole as vigorously as she could to get them across the open waterway and under the houses on the other side before Smaug got close enough to notice them.

Tilda bit down on her hand, doing her best to choke back her terror-filled sobs, and Sigrid pulled her into her lap.

/oOo\

Bard groaned as he slowly became fuzzily aware of the world around him. He slowly sat up on the cot he’d been laid on, one hand pressed against his pounding head, then looked around ... there! Hastily leaning over, he deposited the previous evening’s dinner in the slop bucket.

Finally getting the dry heaving under control, looked around ... bars on the window, a heavy wooden door with a tiny window so others could look in — one of the cells on the floor above the Master’s quarters, no surprise there. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened, even if he hadn’t seen the mercenary that had knocked him out — this wasn’t his first concussion. _How long have I been out?_ He pushed himself to his feet, one hand against the wall and peered out the window.

A dark night, the Moon had set, though even with the total lack of cloud cover the chill in the air said it was early morning. The window was on the north side, and his eyes inevitably lifted toward the dark bulk of Lonely Mountain — a red spark came to life low on the Mountain’s slope. A spark that rose into the air.

“Smaug ...” he breathed, then whirled away from the window and threw himself at his cell door and desperately looked out through the tiny window. He sighed with relief — visible in the light of a flickering oil lamp was a guard dozing on a chair by the door to the outside stairs, from his hardened leather armor another mercenary. “Wake up, wake up! The Dragon’s on its way!”

“Huh? Whazzat?” The guard blinked, straightened in his chair, rubbed at his eyes. “What are you blathering on about now?”

“Smaug’s coming, we have to get out of here!”

The guard just shook his head with a sigh. “Didn’t you shout enough nonsense last night?”

“No, he’s coming right now! Check for yourself!”

“Right, like I’m gonna open your cell, nice try,” the guard said with a chuckle.

“Use the cell next to me — there _is_ a cell next to me that looks north, right?”

The guard frowned, staring at Bard, then stood, hitched up his sword belt and tightened the buckle, and shrugged. “Why not? It’s not like I’m getting back to sleep while you’re caterwauling.”

He ambled out of sight into the cell to Bard’s left. Bard found himself holding his breath — what if Smaug had gone to ground? — but a moment later the guard burst out of the cell headed for the door, shouting, “Smaug’s coming! Smaug’s coming!”

“Wait, let me out!” Bard pounded on the door of his cell.

The guard paused and looked back. His eyes were so wide the white all around the pupil was visible, but after a moment he jerked a nod and dashed back to the door. There was a grating sound and a clatter as the wooden bar across the door was lifted clear of its brackets, then he whirled away and the outside door slammed against the wall as he disappeared down the stairs shouting all the way.

Bard thrust open his cell door and rushed after the guard, down the stairs and around to the back entrance into the Master’s mansion. The mercenary guard that would have normally been posted there was already gone, probably into the house after the prison guard, and Bard leaned against the wall for a few moments waiting for the pounding in his head to die down and the world to stop whirling about. The pain didn’t recede much, but the world eventually settled ... somewhat ... and he staggered in.

Inside was bedlam, a cacophony of shouts and running feet, but Bard ignored it as he carefully made his way down the short corridor past closed doors, through a dining hall and another open doorway into a long, wide hallway to the front entrance and stairways on each side. He glanced around, then up as a mercenary carrying a chest thundered down one of the stairways. The mercenary tried to rush past Bard, but stopped when the hunter grabbed his shoulder and started to demand, “Which way to the —”

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Bard looked up to find the Master standing at the top of the stairs the mercenary had just come down, his portly form clad in slippers and night clothes with an elaborate robe of embroidered red and gold. The man’s glare was even angrier than usual. Bard shrugged mentally, it wasn’t like the Master’s longstanding hatred of the heir of Dale’s kingship mattered at the moment. “I need to get to the windlance. Unless you are leaving one of your men behind to man it?”

The Master’s eyes widened, but after a moment he shook himself out of his shock. “Determined to follow in your grandfather’s footsteps? You’ll do no better.” _And come to the same end_ , went unsaid but hung in the air between them.

“Someone has to try.”

The Master stared at Bard for a long moment, then waved to the stairway on the other side of the hall. “Those stairs will take you to the ladder to the belfry.”

Without another word Bard rushed to the stairs and bounded up them, doing his best to ignore the pain that shot through his head with every thud of a foot on a step. He didn’t realize he was being followed until he reached the ladder that stretched up the inside of the belfry. He’d just taken a deep breath and grasped a rung to start pulling himself up, when the thudding of more feet on the stairs caught his attention. He turned around to find one of the mercenaries behind him — a rather successful man-at-arms at that, from the chainmail tunic he wore.

The mercenary waved at the ladder. “Go.”

“Right.” Bard turned back and started climbing.

Several minutes later Bard pulled himself up through the trapdoor in the floor of the open top of the tower. He rolled aside for the man-at-arms still on the ladder and stared up at the night sky as his vision waxed and waned with the pounding in his head. After a few moments he became aware of the open hand stretched down toward him. He reached up and grasped it and was pulled to his feet.

“Saewig,” the mercenary said, and waved at the windlance before glancing nervously to the north. “I hope you can use that.”

“The previous Master allowed me to fire it a few times.” Bard looked north himself, and went cold when he realized how close the Dragon had come — close enough that he could see a hint of wings black against the stars, and that the red spark that had first warned him was actually Smaug’s chest glowing red. That would certainly help if tradition spoke true.

“ ‘A few times’?” Saewig repeated incredulously.

“I’m gifted.” Bard walked over to the windlance and swept it from side to side, up and down on the clever mounting the Dwarves had made for Dale, that no one alive he knew of could replicate now (if any Men ever could) — it swung easily and without so much as a squeak. “At least the Master’s people have kept it rust-free and oiled.” He glanced over at Saewig, still frozen in place. “Bow, spear, thrown knife or ax, it doesn’t matter ... a try or two to adjust for the weight and form and I hit my target ... it’s made me the best hunter in Lake-town. Give me a clear shot and I’ll finish what my grandfather started. Now give me a hand, here.”

“Right.” Saewig shook off his shock and stepped forward to grab the crank handle across the windlance from Bard, turning it as Bard did the same with its counterpart on his side. The thick steel wire that was the windlance’s string inched down along wooden barrel, pulling back the limbs. Bard could have done it alone, but nowhere as quickly with Saewig there. Speaking of which ...

“Saewig, why are you here? Lake-town isn’t your home, and we aren’t likely to live to see the dawn.” The string clicked into the catch, and Bard turned to snatch one of the Black Arrows from their rack against the low wall and felt the edge of the head with his thumb ... as sharp as need be. Satisfied, he glanced over at Saewig and realized he could actually see hints of the details of the man ... dawn was coming. “Well?”

Saewig shrugged. “When I was a child I loved the stories of the heroes of legend. But farmers’ sons don’t grow up to become warrior princes, so I became a mercenary instead.”

Bard stared at him for a long moment, then smiled crookedly. “Let’s hope that we’re reliving the tale of Turin rather than Azaghâl,” he quipped, startling Saewig into laughter before his eyes widened and he dropped into a crouch. Bard followed suit just as a massive glowing red-centered shadow soared past above them, the faint breeze of the Dragon’s passing ruffling their hair.

Saewig whispered, “You’re going to have a tough time picking out a missing scale.”

“There’ll be plenty of light soon enough,” Bard replied, face grim. Smaug was larger than he’d ever thought possible, he couldn’t _believe_ his grandfather had actually succeeded in knocking a single scale loose! And he was supposed to pick out the missing scale on that massive chest with Smaug in flight and the uncertain light of the burning houses that were to come?

A faint hissing sound caught his attention, pulling him away from his despairing thoughts. He looked around, then when he didn’t see anything in the fading dark he closed his eyes to listen more closely.

“What —”

“Shhhh!” The hissing was ... behind him ... down ... to his left.... He opened his eyes and twisted around to scuttle over a few paces. Was that smoke rising from a darker patch on the wood of the belfry’s roof? He considered for a moment, then carefully swept his gaze along the roof, following the path of Smaug’s overflight. Other patches, and now he could catch the faint scent of charring wood.

“What is it?”

Bard scuttled back over to the windlance. “The Dwarves may have awakened Smaug, but they tried to remedy that. I think he’s bleeding.”

“Is he ... ?” Saewig looked speculatively after the Dragon as he circled out over the lake, turned back toward the town, his chest’s red glow brightened, shifted up from red toward pure white ... and a massive gout of flame burst out to bath an entire row of piered buildings the full length of the town as Smaug soared across it ... the row that contained his own home.

For a long moment the only sound in the night was the crackle of the homes and businesses abruptly going up like a line of bonfires, and then the faint sounds of screaming arose and Bard cursed. Not everyone had gotten the word, or trusted it. _My children_ ... He thrust the thought aside as the distant shadow of the Dragon swept back around toward Lake-town. _Cenbert has seen to them_. As another river of flame ripped across the town he focused on the Dragon’s overflight — especially that massive red-white glowing chest. Was that a streak of black running across that glow? Yes! He had a target! He dropped the Black Arrow into the flight groove and swung the windlance about, waiting Smaug’s next pass.

/oOo\

Tauriel was whispering a chant of pity and mercy to Nienna as she poled the boat between two of the massive logs pounded down into the lakebed, doing her best to focus on maneuvering through the open forest of trimmed tree trunks ... something she was aided in by the light of the blazing buildings behind her. They had still been out in the open when Smaug had made his first pass, and she’d twisted to look behind as he had swept by — she’d seen the way the gout of flames had swept along not just the roofs but the walls as well ... and the clouds of steam that had exploded upward as the edge of that fiery stream had splashed against the lake itself. If Smaug had chosen the row they had been headed toward instead of the one they’d left behind ...

She thrust the thought aside as she brought the boat to a stop midway to the other side of the row they were under. They should be safe there for a moment as she thought things through. “Bain, Sigrid, everyone that already left during the night,” — who had obviously received some sort of warning that Bard’s family hadn’t, and she was wondering why — “where would they have gone?”

“What?!” Sigrid shouted. “Everyone else left us behind?!”

A shriek of utter torment pierced the night, and Tauriel whirled around to stare behind them. Thanks to being so far underneath the low flooring they couldn’t see even a full story’s height of the burning buildings, but all of them knew what the flailing bundle of flame that slammed into the water was.

Tauriel quickly poled the boat around so the children would have to twist to look back at the growing inferno. “Children, look at me. Look At Me.”

The three turned to face her as more screams rang out, Bain with a death grip on the Black Arrow while Sigrid desperately hugged her little sister. Tilda clutched her sister’s nightgown and twisted to bury her tearstained face in her shoulder.

“Good. Now Bain, Sigrid, where will everyone have gone?”

The two teenagers exchanged glances, and Bain spoke up. “S-s-south, to the farms.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Thank you.” Tauriel started poling again, pushing the boat along the strip of buildings, keeping to the center as best she could as she maneuvered through forest of trunks.

“That’s north, you’re going the wrong way!” Sigrid insisted.

“I know, we’re heading for the Forest River and the marsh that surrounds it. Once Smaug finishes Lake-town he may hunt for other gatherings of Men, best to avoid them for the moment — even if they aren’t on the other side of an open lake, with dawn coming.”

Tilda twisted around to look at Tauriel. “But what about father?”

“Your father will have to look after himself.”

“But we can —”

Tauriel shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, child, but your father asked me to watch over you, and I will. He would never forgive me if I failed in that task.” She smiled as comfortingly as she could, but suspected she failed miserably. “He is a capable man, I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

They almost reached the end of their pier of buildings when their turn came. One moment all was quiet in the forest of pillars—if not so quiet above, the sounds of shouts and running feet directly above them and the more distant screams and crackle of flames — and the next moment a massive roar filled the air as fire jetted down the cracks in the walkways on each side and not far ahead as an explosion of hot steam swept over them. Then the steam and flames were gone, leaving behind the much closer crackle of fire and fresh screams ... one unending scream of pure pain sounded almost directly above them.

Tauriel instantly turned the boat and poled for the open waterway. They were almost to the edge of Lake-town anyway, now they needed speed. She just hoped Smaug had been flying south across the town, if she could be at least close to the shore before the Dragon returned ...

The boat swept out from underneath the massive flaming torches that had been buildings moments before and Tauriel brought it to a stop to turn it north. Just as she started poling it forward a human torch leaped from the fiery walkway and slapped into the water next to them, the long shriek of pain cutting off.

Then a blackened hand latched onto the side of the boat, causing Tilda to jerk back with a shriek, and a vision of horror pulled itself up — its hair was burnt away, skin charred and peeling away in strips, and an eye was just _gone_. Tauriel pulled the pole out of the water, ready to push it away — there wasn’t room in the boat, and it was so badly burnt she couldn’t tell its sex, it couldn’t possibly survive! But it didn’t try to pull itself in, instead lifting a charred, soaked-through bundled blanket to plop into the boat. Blackened, bleeding lips worked for a moment before they hissed, “My baby.” Message delivered, its hand slackened and it sank out of sight.

Tauriel and the children stared at the empty space it had occupied in stunned silence for a long moment, before Sigrid hastily pushed Tilda out of the way and scrabbled at the blanket, pulling and yanking, blackening her hands and staining her nightclothes with ash, spreading it open to reveal a baby only months old. It wasn’t breathing. Tilda was whimpering again, tears leaking down her cheeks, and Bain’s grip on the Black Arrow whitened his knuckles, but Sigrid simply lay the baby face down across her legs and _gently_ pushed down on its back. She felt water soak the fabric of her nightgown over her thigh, and then the baby hacked and began bawling. Sigrid gusted out a sigh of relief, then smiled back at Tauriel. “We’re headed for the swamps?”

Tauriel smiled happily as Tilda eagerly pulled the crying baby into her lap and started rocking in place, humming the lullaby Sakura had sung to her. “Yes, we were. Well done, your father will be proud.” With that she began to pole as fast as she could, pushing the boat toward the north edge of the town and hopefully safety.

/oOo\

Bard was a _very_ frustrated man. He was also a very frightened man. Afraid for himself, yes, though that had faded; so far only the first of Smaug’s passes had overflown the central tower, and by now Bard was convinced that the Dragon was deliberately avoiding it for some incomprehensible reason. No, the dawn was coming, and he was terrified that with the sun’s rise Smaug would go hunting for those that had escaped ... including his children. By now Bard was certain that Smaug was not just wounded but dying, he thought he’d seen fresh spatters of blood rain down as the Dragon had swept back and forth across the town and he thought the Dragon was flying lower ... slower. The question was, would the monster die fast _enough?_

And _that_ was where the frustration came in, because as best he could tell not one of his shots had even come close to the target. Oh, he had expected the first few to go wide as he got a feel for the windlance — not even the crossbows several men-at-arms had been generous enough to let him try were really close — and so he hadn’t been disappointed to see the bolts bounce off the Dragon’s chest and pinwheel away. But he hadn’t anticipated the way Smaug had twisted and turned through his passes, spreading his flames as widely as possible — it was nothing like knocking a bird out of the air, the few times he’d had a clear shot at the top of the smoking, black trail down Smaug’s chest the opening wasn’t there anymore by the time the dart hit. The best Bard had managed was to punch a few tiny holes in the wings’ membrane.

The string clicked into its latch, and Bard let go of the crank to snatch the last Black Arrow from the rack and place it in the flight groove, then glanced around at the flaming town that surrounded them — the only part of the town untouched by the Dragon’s breath was the mansion whose tower they occupied, it wasn’t hard to guess what his final sweep would target. _Please, let his head-on approach give me the opportunity I need before his flames reach us ... me_. Speaking of ‘us’ ... “Saewig, last Black Arrow, we’re done cocking the windlance. Time for you to go.”

Saewig had stepped away from the crank on his own side, back out of the way of the windlance’s swing, and turned to watch the Dragon circle over the lake for another pass. At Bard’s statement he glanced back and shook his head. “I’ll stay till the end.”

Bard thought frantically for some way to change Saewig’s mind _now_ , before Smaug returned. _I can ask him to drop a few floors to look for more Black Arrows_.

He opened his mouth to make the suggestion just as Smaug completed his turn, and paused — Smaug _wasn’t_ coming straight at them, what was he _doing?_ Bard watched, mouth hanging open, as rather than soaring straight across the town the Dragon’s wings beat, slowed his flight, his massive body dropped ... and crunched down on top of an already flaming building halfway from the bell tower to the edge of the town, his massive wings furling along his back.

As the two stared in shock, Smaug’s long neck lifted his head above the flames, his eyes fixed on them, and for the first time his voice thundered out. “SO, LITTLE LORDLING, YOUR TOWN IS RAZED. YOUR PEOPLE BURN. AND YOUR PITIFUL ATTEMPTS TO KILL ME ARE BUT PRICKS AGAINST THE MIGHT THAT IS SMAUG. MY ARMOR IS LIKE TEMPERED SHIELDS, MY TEETH ARE SWORDS, MY CLAWS SPEARS, THE SHOCK OF MY TAIL A THUNDERBOLT, MY WINGS A HURRICANE! AND MY BREATH ... DEATH!”

With that he reared up on his hind legs, ignoring the crunch and cracks of the building slowly collapsing underneath him. His head lifted on his sinuous neck like a snake preparing to strike; his tail lashed, scattering burning timber across the town; his chest glowed white-red as he sucked in a deep breath, the black streak down it bubbling and steaming with the heat —

Bard wasn’t even aware he’d taken the shot until the _snap!_ of the string sounded, the windlance’s limbs instantly straightening ... the Black Arrow flashing across the burning town to plunge deep right at the top of that corrosive black streak of Dragon blood.

Smaug staggered, fell into the building with flames leaping all around as the remnants of the roof and the upper floor underneath him finally collapsed under his weight. Then the building’s upper walls seemed to explode, tiny arcs of fire and fiery timbers pinwheeling in all directions as his wings snapped open. The beat down hard, fanning the nearby flames into leaping columns, once ... twice ... three times ... and the Dragon’s massive bulk shot skyward. Bard tilted his head back to follow Smaug’s rise, higher and higher in the first light of the dawn, until the now-toy-like image went limp and tumbled down, growing rapidly larger until it plummeted through the wide wooden floor of the wide plaza in front of the Master’s mansion to vanish with the cracking of timber and a loud splash and a massive wave of hot steam billowed out until to the two stunned Men in the tower it seemed as if they were surrounded by a red-tinted fog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turin and Azaghâl, mentioned by Bard, both fought the Dragon Glaurung. But while Azaghâl seriously wounded him before dying, it was Turin that killed him (before also dying). This would be _very_ obscure knowledge, considering it all happened during the wars with Morgoth during First Age, but I figure the people of Lake-town have good reason to be interested in dragon-lore.


	32. This Ain't Nothin'

Thorin sat against the wall by the stairs leading up to the secret passage, gently rocking the sleeping Hobbit in his lap with his arms around her and humming a lullaby just like he had his niece. And like Arlais after her kidnapping Sakura’s sleep had not been tranquil, though he’d managed to soothe her restlessness without waking her up. So he wasn’t taken completely by surprise when Sakura’s eyes snapped open.

“He’s dead.”

“Who?”

Sakura sat up, blushing when she realized where she was. She hastily scrambled out of Thorin’s arms and lap, hissing through gritted teeth as she moved, then tried to stand.

Thorin caught her when her legs refused to hold her and rose to his feet with her in his arms, Balin rising beside them. “Who’s dead?” he repeated as the Dwarves still digging through the gold looking for the Arkenstone turned to look curiously at the trio.

Sakura grimaced and wriggled for a moment, then hissed as blisters broke and leather stiffened by dried blood rubbed against burns. But the pain, sharp as it was, couldn’t overshadow the sudden absence that had disturbed her sleep, and she looked around the dim throne room and treasury as if seeing it for the first time. “Smaug’s dead,” she said, voice soft with wonder. “I don’t know how Lake-town did it, but somehow his vile taint that drove away all that lives is gone — he’s dead!”

The Dwarves exchanged stunned glances, then Thorin shook his head. “Maybe, but maybe there’s some other explanation. Ori, you’re the fastest left here, go join your brother, find out what’s happening. The rest of you, get back to the search.”

Ori took off at a run and the rest resumed digging, slowed by constant glances at the entrance.

Sakura wriggled again in Thorin’s arms, gritting her teeth against renewed pain. She hissed, “I can walk, put me down!”

Thorin’s chuckle rumbled deep, as Balin shook his head with a wry smile. “Let it be, Little One. You may be able to walk” — he wisely didn’t mention her failed attempt to stand — “but as much as you’ve stiffened up I doubt even you could run now. What if you’re wrong about Smaug and he returns?”

Sakura pouted, but stopped struggling in unspoken acknowledgement of Balin’s wisdom. Instead she crossed her arms and kept her gaze fixed on the throne room entrance, not even looking over when Bifur cried out in his incomprehensible Khuzdul. Though she did briefly glance down at the massive, faintly shining crystal in the miner’s hands when all the Dwarves gathered around to stare at it.

Thorin stared hungrily down at the prize that they has suffered and sacrificed so much for, eager to take possession of it. But ... his gazed shifted to the stony face of the Hobbit in his arm, and he sighed. “Balin, take it for now, my hands are —”

Nori burst through the doorway, the poacher huffing and puffing from his run. “Smaug’s ... Smaug’s dead!” he managed to gasp out. “Dwalin saw ... him rise and ... and then fall!”

Thorin’s shoulders slumped with relief, gusting out a sigh of relief as the rest of the Dwarves cheered and slapped each other on the back, even knocked heads in their joy. The gathered armies of the Dwarves wouldn’t have to face another devastating battle against the single most dangerous creature left in Middle Earth! _No, instead we’ll need to fight off everyone_ else _, once word spreads that the Dragon is dead. And it_ will _spread, and fast ... and it’ll take_ weeks _to get word to Dain, more for him to arrive with an army._

He had stiffened at the thought, and when he looked over at Balin’s horrified expression he knew his advisor had had the same thought. Turning to the still-celebrating Company, he shouted, “Enough! We’re moving to the Front Gate. Balin will go with me now, the rest of you gather our supplies and join us there. Hurry!”

He turned to go, but paused when Oin shouted, “Wait!” The apothecary hurried over, reaching into his pouch to pull out a familiar green-wrapped square and hand it to the Hobbit in Thorin’s arms. “Sakura, here’s some lembas for your breakfast. I’ll have more for you at the Gate.”

Sakura whispered a thank you with a heartbreakingly forced smile, and Thorin hurried from the throne room with Balin at his heels while the rest of the Company rushed for the stairs up to the secret passage and their baggage.

/\

Sakura absentmindedly accepted another square of lembas from the newly arrived Oin without a word, her gaze remaining fixed on the pillar of smoke rising from Lake-town ... as her gaze had been since Thorin had reluctantly deposited her on her rocky seat and begun his assessment of the task before them of blocking off the Front Gate. Even from paces away he could tell that she was shivering thanks to the cold of the early autumn morning breeze, but when Oin unlaced and shrugged off his own jacket and draped it around her she still remained silent.

 _That won’t do_. Thorin strode over toward their burglar ... though he was going to have to stop using that label, that part of the Quest was done. And it wasn’t like Sakura had actually _burgled_ anything in the end, anyway.

She squeaked when he gathered her up without warning and began to halfheartedly protest, but fell silent when he frowned repressively as he turned to walk back toward the Front Gate. “You need to get warm, and that means getting you out of the wind and bundled up in more blankets.”

“And what about everyone else? I won’t have the rest of you shivering while I’m toasty-warm in all your blankets.”

“That isn’t going to be a problem,” Thorin replied, smiling grimly. “Everyone, to me!”

He continued walking as the rest of the Company hurried to catch up with him. “We aren’t going to have much time, with the Dragon gone the vultures will be gathering and we have to be ready for them. Nori, take a few days’ food and head for the Iron Hills as quickly as you can, to take word of what has happened to my cousin Dain — you’ll take a message with my personal seal, to get you a hearing. But I’m afraid you’re going to get hungry on the way, we’ll have to keep as much food as we can here, to see us through until you return with Dain’s army.” His eyes dropped for a moment to the Hobbit in his arms, and Nori nodded.

“For the rest of us — Gloin, Dwalin, Bifur, you are the most experienced in working with stone, you will have nine pairs of willing hands to do the heavy lifting for building a wall across the Front Gate, high and strong.”

Sakura had obviously done a quick count, and Thorin was heartened to see her frown up at him as she came to the equally obvious conclusion. “And what will I be doing while you build your wall?”

“ _You_ will be recovering,” Thorin said sternly, then hastily added, “and once you’ve recovered you’ll be our lookout. The first scavengers will be individuals and small groups, rushing ahead to grab their fill while kingdoms are still organizing. You will watch for them. But _only_ once you are fit.” More softly, he said, “So far you’ve been taking care of us, let us return the favor.”

Sakura considered, pouted, but reluctantly nodded. Thorin did his best to suppress a sigh of relief, then looked up as a flock of ravens soared above the Company before circling around. He smiled. “Nori, you may not have to make the run to the Iron Hills, after all.”

/oOo\

Bard was shivering violently as he and Saewig stumbled out of the lake, on each side of the boat carrying his Elven guest and his children ... including, apparently, their newest baby brother. He still didn’t know what he thought about that. Yes, he was happy they had managed to rescue a baby from death by drowning or fire, but they shouldn’t have _been_ there! Where was _Cenbert?_

The boat beached itself on the shore of the marsh farm, and Bard looked around as best he could in the early morning marsh mist. At least this late in the year the fields were long stripped of their harvest, so the crowd looking out of place in their town clothes as they put up makeshift tents wasn’t trampling crops. Though not _everyone_ was putting up tents, and he had to smile when several young children ran past, flinging gobs of mud at each other — their mothers were _not_ going to be happy! Was there anyone more resilient than children?

He looked back over his shoulder at his daughters, his face turning grim at the sight of a worried Sigrid with her arm around her little sister, Tilda’s face blank as she gently rocked her new brother in her arms. _I hope that resilience holds true for_ all _children._

Then one of the women working on the tents — Oerun, whose family had lived on Bard’s street, her children had played with Tilda when they were small(er) — looked around at the children, and caught sight of the newcomers. “It’s Bard!” Instantly, the adults dropped their efforts and rushed to the boat, cheering the man that had warned them of the coming catastrophe ... at least until Oerun noticed how wet the newcomers were from swimming, splashes, and condensing steam, and shouted for everyone to shut up and fetch blankets.

As several people rushed off, Saewig shouted, “Bard didn’t just warn everyone of Smaug’s coming, with his last bolt he _slew the Dragon!_ ”

Silence slammed down as everyone stared, eyes wide and mouths hanging open, and Bard hastily lifted his hands in a warding gesture. “It wasn’t just me, I killed a dying beast! The Dwarves somehow dug a chunk out of the scales of its chest for the bolt —”

“BARD DRAGONSLAYER!!” The bellow was loud enough to shake leaves off trees, and the cheers that followed drowned out his protests.

/\

“Bard and his companion, my lord.” The servant that had guided Bard, Saewig and Tauriel through the gathering dark from the tent where he had tucked his children into their blankets announced their arrival to the Master of Lake-town, then stepped out of the way.

Bard shielded his eyes, squinting against the light of the lantern hanging from the central pole of the Master’s tent. The tent walls’ fabric was richer, the poles richly carved and varnished, an already mud-smeared rug on the ground instead of the walls, but it was as makeshift as the tents Bard had been helping raise that morning as he he’d moved from farm island to farm island looking for Cenbert, before the Master’s messenger had found him.

A still richly dressed Master nodded to him, and to Saewig and Tauriel behind him before waving to three travelling chairs before they could bow. As the three settled (Bard ignoring the way the other two hovered as he wearily lowered himself into his seat), the Master said, “So have you changed your employer, Captain?”

Bard started to twist in his chair, and winced as a spike of pain shot through his eyes and seemed to bounce around inside his skull. “ ‘Captain?”

Saewig shrugged. “I said I’d spent years as a mercenary, I never said how well I’ve done.” He turned to the Master. “I’m sure Sergeant Grani did as well as I could have if I had gone with you, and one more man-at-arms would have made no difference if Smaug had attacked you. I _did_ make a difference helping Bard. None of my men were hurrying to volunteer, and there wasn’t time to ask them all.”

“You could have ordered one of them to stay.”

“Yes, I could have, and would have lost the respect of my men either when my chosen sacrifice refused or when he died in fire to no purpose — you must admit that Bard actually _killing_ the Dragon wasn’t what you expected. Nor did I.” He smiled grimly. “And now, my men’s loyalty will be _unshakable_.”

The Master stared at the commander of his guard for a long moment, then smiled wryly. “I will never understand warriors. Which, in a way, is why in a way you _will_ be changing your employer.” He shifted his attention to Bard. “Tell me, did you know that your father once tried to convince the people of Laketown to resettle Dale?”

Bard straightened in his chair for a moment, before his exhaustion pulled his shoulders back down. “No, my lord, I didn’t.”

The Master shrugged. “Nothing came of it. Your father wasn’t the hunter you are, and didn’t understand trade — there was no _reason_ to move to those ruins without the King under the Mountain, Lake-town is better placed for trade and as well defended from any reasonable threat. And your father lacked the spark to lead men to act against their better interests — the spark _you_ possess, if you’d ever wished to use it.”

Bard’s eyes widened. “Is _that_ why you always ha — why you always were wary of me? But I never wanted ...”

 The Master’s lips twitched at the hunter’s shock. “Yes, why I was ... wary ... of you. You couldn’t have pulled away everyone, but enough to do real harm to both Lake-town, and those that followed you. You never showed any wish to do so, but still ...” His twitching lips stretched into a wry smile. “It seems you have what neither you nor I ever wanted. With Smaug dead at your hands —” He raised a hand. “— I know, you’ve insisted it was but a finishing shot, a final stroke to a dying beast. My servants have told me. It doesn’t matter, it was your shot, finishing what _your grandfather_ started. The people will take your word over mine, and other than you and your family leaving entirely — which isn’t happening, I know — there is nothing either of us can do about it.

“And the truth is that it is just as well.” He waved at the tent about them. “I have done well as Master, but so has Lake-town — we have _all_ prospered under my management. But I am a merchant, not a warrior, a maker of lists and counter of gold ... not a leader of men. This situation is beyond me.

“So ... my lord ... what do we do now?”

Bard groaned, lowering his head into his hands. But already his thoughts were sluggishly pushing along the lines the Master had laid down.

The silence stretched for beat after beat, until he finally raised his head. “You said you are a maker of lists, do you have a count of survivors?”

“Yes, and our losses were surprisingly light. It seems that _many_ more chose to listen to rumor than to my protestations that there was no reason to be concerned.”

“I see. That is what matters. So long as the people live we can rebuild — if we survive this winter.” After a moment, Bard began to softly chuckle. “Well, my lord ... yes, you are still the Master of Lake-town, I will merely be Bard. If you are right, that will be enough. For now, at least.” He lifted his head from his hands and straightened in his chair. “As I was saying, my lord, we will be returning to Dale.”

The Master’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping, and Bard’s chuckles turned into laughter until the pounding in his head cut it short. He waved at the walls around them. “We can _not_ remain here. With winter coming on it will be cold, it will be wet, disease ...”

The Master’s eyes narrowed, but he slowly nodded. “And Dale?”

“It will be away from these marshes, more room to spread out, and many of the walls still stand — they will be better protection from the wind than these four walls of fabric. And as of a decade ago, much of the water — and sewer — system was still clear of obstruction.”

“You know this?”

“Yes. Years ago I felt the need to see the home of my fathers.”

The Master frowned, then also began to laugh. “Yes, it _is_ all very ironic, is it not? Very well, I will inform my servants. Tomorrow, we will begin to move people by boat to the mouth of the River Running, for the trek to Dale. Captain, some of your men will need to accompany the first boats, to maintain order and look after the weak.”

Bard started to nod, winced at renewed pain, then turned to Tauriel. “We will need food, wood for fires, medicine. But most of all food. Will you take a request for aid to your king?”

“I will.” Tauriel nodded, then rose to her feet. “And now _you_ will be joining your children. You are about to fall out of your chair. Best for you to lie down willingly before your body decides the issue for you.”

Bard began to protest, only for the room to begin to swim. The Master rose to his feet and bowed to them as Tauriel and Saewig — _Captain_ Saewig — helped him to his feet.

For a moment the world seemed to go away. When it returned he was lying in another tent beside his son. (He would recognize Bain’s snoring anywhere.) He looked up to see the elf maiden at the door to the tent. “Tauriel?”

She turned back and smiled at him. “I will see you at Dale.” And she was gone.

/\

They got several hours sleep before the hungry wails of the baby woke them up. One of the servants brought some fresh milk she’d been farsighted enough to acquire from the farmer whose fields they occupied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier I'd said that produce came from farms to the south, but when I looked at a map I noticed that the marshes weren't just around the mouth of the Forest River where it empties into Long Lake, they run all along the west side of the lake and down along the River Running until it crosses the Old Forest Road. I was all set to simply say the farms were south and _across_ the lake, until I remembered a form of agriculture archeologists discovered had supported an empire in the mountains of South America, one where the fields were surrounded by canals dug in the earth and filled with water every spring. The early morning fog from the water protected the crops from frost, the canals provided fish, and after harvest they'd drain the water and throw all the water weeds up on the farmland (rich in nitrogen). The empire collapsed when it was hit with five years of drought. So, marsh farms.
> 
> The chapter title comes from a Country song by Craig Morgan:
> 
>  **This Ain't Nothin'**
> 
> He was standing in the rubble of an old farmhouse outside Birmingham  
>  When some on the scene reporter stuck a camera in the face of that old man  
>  He said "tell the folks please mister, what are you gonna do  
>  Now that this twister has taken all that's dear to you"  
>  The old man just smiled and said "boy let me tell you something, this ain't nothing"
> 
> He said I lost my daddy, when I was eight years old,  
>  That cave-in at the Kincaid mine left a big old hole,  
>  And I lost my baby brother, my best friend and my left hand  
>  In a no win situation in a place called Vietnam  
>  And last year I watched my loving wife, of fifty years waste away and die  
>  And I held her hand til her heart of gold stopped pumping,  
>  So this ain't nothin'
> 
> He said I learned at an early age,  
>  There's things that matter and there's things that don't  
>  So if you're waiting here for me to cry,  
>  I hate to disappoint you boy, but I won't  
>  Then he reached down in the rubble and picked up a photograph  
>  Wiped the dirt off of it with the hand that he still had  
>  He put it to his lips and said man she was something  
>  But this ain't nothin'
> 
> This ain't nothin' time won't erase  
>  And this ain't nothin' money can't replace  
>  He said you sit and watch your loving wife fifty years fighting for her life  
>  Then you hold her hand til her heart of gold stops pumping  
>  Yeah boy that's something,  
>  So this ain't nothin'  
>  Yeah this ain't nothin'


	33. Hero

Elladan and Elrohir jogged up to the open gate of the walled enclosure, the only one they’d seen since coming down into the lands between the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood. The homestead was a surprise — certainly, there were Men living in the middle Anduin Vales, but their settlements were either larger (the walls they were approaching could enclose only a family at most) or hidden from the Orcs that raided out of Gundabad in the north.

“Hello, the house!” Elladan called out and waited, keeping his eyes fixed on the building while Elrohir watched the trees across the meadow behind them, arrow knocked to bowstring. They had taken a serious risk, coming over the Misty Mountains this late in the year, enough that even an Elf as stubborn as Arwen had _finally_ agreed not to come with them. The first snows in the pass hadn’t stopped the brothers, they’d just walked across the snow pack’s surface, but it meant they couldn’t bring their horses — and while leaving the horses behind meant that without Arwen they could travel faster in the long run, it also meant that they wouldn’t be able to outrun any Warg Riders they encountered. And with only two of them, a large enough raiding party could overwhelm them if they were caught out in the open. It was simply too dangerous.

But they hadn’t seen any Orcs east of the mountains, or even any sign of them — there seemed to be even fewer of them there than in Eriador.

No reply came from the house, but Elrohir hissed and Elladan turned to see the biggest man they’d ever seen striding toward them from the line of trees across the meadow, gray-haired, leather-clad, iron shackles on his wrists, two large buckets hanging from a yoke across his shoulders — a man, but not a Man. Elrohir took in the long, broad nose and the sweep of hair framing his face, and murmured, “That has to be the biggest skinchanger I’ve ever seen.”

Elladan nodded his agreement as the man strode past them into the compound and up to the door. (The buckets were full of honeycombs wrapped in cloth.) As he pulled on the latch that opened the door, he growled, “Well, come on in.”

The two brothers hesitantly followed him into the house, gazing about — it was a homey place, wide, windows with open shutters filling the room with light and a freshening breeze; hay covering the floor; rough-hewn wooden furniture; heavy iron tools hanging from hooks. And some of the largest bees they’d ever seen, buzzing in and out of the open windows.

The buckets clunked onto the table, and the man turned to face them, his gaze shifting to the twins’ dark hair and ears for a moment. “So, Elves this time. I am Beorn, who are you?”

The brothers exchanged glances — _this_ time? Elrohir, ever the more diplomatic of the pair, spoke up. “I am Elrohir, and this is my brother Elladan; we are the sons of Elrond. Have you perhaps encountered a company of Dwarves, along with a Wizard and one Hobbit?”

Beorn’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I did some moons ago. Are you seeking them?”

Elrohir waved off their host’s obvious suspicion. “No, they passed through Imladris on their journey, and stayed with us for a few days. Our sister Arwen will be happy to know they made it safely this far, especially Sakura.”

Beorn held his suspicious stare for a long moment, then relaxed with a deep chuckle. “They had some ... difficulties ... before they arrived here, _especially_ the Holbytla. But she healed in the weeks they were here, and they all left in good health. But if you are not seeking that Company, why _are_ you here?”

This time it was Elladan that replied, with a savage grin. “We seek prey, rather than company. The Orcs — Goblins — have become rather scarce on the west side of the mountains, and those we encounter rather poor sport. We are curious as to why.”

Beorn stiffened, then nodded. “Let me put away my gleanings and bring out a meal, and we will talk.”

After a simple but plentiful meal of fresh bread, honey, and fruit, Beorn drank the last of the fresh milk in his tankard and frowned at his guests as it thunked down onto the table. “Now, tell me your tale.”

He listened intently as Elladan told of the sheer incompetence of the raiding parties they’d encountered — and annihilated — ending with, “Elrohir and I may have spent the last few centuries hunting Goblins around Dol Guldur, but those out of Mount Gundabad _can’t_ have become such poor warriors — their own intertribal squabbling would have kept them sharp, we had to be facing their dregs. So where _are_ they? Have you been encountering a surfeit of Goblins haunting the Anduin Vale, making war on the Men that dwell here?”

“No, I haven’t.” Beorn’s frown deepened as he considered Elladan’s tale. “The Company brought their own Goblins hunting them, but I led them north to the Elven road through Mirkwood — no Goblin could follow them on that path. But in the moons since then I have seen no Goblins at all.”

He stared thoughtfully at his two guests for a long moment, then abruptly rose to his feet and stalked to one of the open windows. Leaning out, he whistled — a sound incongruously melodic for such a rough-seeming man. A few moments later a brilliant blue-and-red songbird landed on an upraised hand. He murmured lowly to the bird, then when it chirped back tossed it into the air outside the window. Turning back to the curious brothers, he said, “I dislike sending such messengers, they sometimes end up eaten ... a poor return for faithful service. But this could be important. If my messenger survives, there should be a response tomorrow morning.”

/\

At dawn the next morning a piercing shriek jolted Elrohir and Elladan out of their bedrolls. Beorn sat up in his own bed in the corner, grumbling and rubbing at eyes and cheeks. (The three had enjoyed some excellent ale the previous night — Beorn hadn’t gotten _drunk_ , not as massive as he was, but he had gotten ... relaxed.) Another shriek came, and this time the brothers could identify it as some king of raptor’s cry. “I’m coming!” Beorn called out, pushing his blankets off and swinging his feet to the floor. He rubbed his cheeks again for a moment, then pushed to his feet and strode for the door.

The brothers exchanged glances and followed their host, picking up bows and quivers as they went. Stepping out into the enclosure, their jaws dropped at the sight of the massive Great Eagle perched atop the enclosure’s wall.

/oOo\

Sakura sighed as she leaned (slumped) in her seat, leaning against the pillow between her and the side of the van. The pillow was necessary, given the state of the road after too many Colorado winters without proper maintenance, and she hadn’t really caught up on her sleep during the too-brief downtime since their last mission.

The van hit another pothole, bouncing around its cursing occupants — but not _too_ much, between the team members and their gear there wasn’t much room to rattle around. And the cursing was rather perfunctory by now, and even more perfunctory after the van hit three more potholes in quick succession. Successfully driving on this road was much like the oldtime riverboat pilots on the Mississippi, only knowing which potholes were shallow and which risked breaking an axle instead of where the deep water and sandbars were.

_Well, I’ll just have to catch up on sleep on the flight out_ , she thought as the van began to climb one of the hills between Cheyenne Mountain and the airport. It would be nice if the airport was closer to the Mountain, but with the town and refugee camp at its base the Powers-that-Be had wanted to keep military targets away from the civilians. There were missiles besides ICBMs that could reach so far beyond the fronts, and it had been her own side that had first used tactical nuclear warheads when it went after its enemies’ orbital launch capability during the Satellite War.

(The three so-called Coalitions had been _very_ surprised at how well the US had prepared for that, resulting in both sides going through the beginning stages of the invasions with not much more ability to see behind enemy lines than the Axis and Allies of World War II and at times even worse communications, turning what would have been a short, sharp, relatively bloodless (for the Coalitions) conquest into a long, grinding, expensive, _bloody_ war instead.)

Sakura was twisting, trying to find a position where the various _ka-thumps_ would bounce her against the pillow instead of the equipment piled beside her, when for a split-second the world outside the window next to her went white. A moment later debris-laden heavy wind hammered into the back and right side of the vehicle. Their driver shout his profane astonishment as he wrestled with the steering wheel, the van swerving on the road before hitting a deep enough pothole to send it crashing down onto its left side, burying Sakura under a pile of weapons, packs with Sharon on top.

By the time her teammates could dig her out from underneath her equipment and pull her out of the van, the mushroom cloud over the Mountain was already being torn apart by the winds. It didn’t take long to empty the van of all their equipment, sort through it for all their medical supplies and anything else that might be useful,, get the van back on its wheels (and send up grateful prayers that it was ancient, and so had no computers built into the engine), and headed back to town.

They should have known better, but they were still stunned when the van coasted to a stop and they piled out and stared at the devastation. The town hadn’t been the target of the nuclear strike, but it was close enough that didn’t matter much — the makeshift buildings with their Franklin stoves hadn’t been turned into so much kindling, but they weren’t standing, either, and fires were everywhere.

So were the bodies.

“All right, with the residual radiation we won’t be able to stay long, so everyone separate and look for survivors. Bob, look for any additional transportation we can use to get any survivors we find out of here.” Everyone nodded their acceptance of Fred’s orders (the team leader since Tom’s death, though Henry had more seniority — by this point, so long as they continued to perform their superiors didn’t care). They scattered out, Sakura heading straight in.

She didn’t bother checking any of the bodies out in the open, only stopping to give a mercy stroke across the throat for some that were writhing in pain from their massive burns — the Mountain wouldn’t be opening its doors any time soon, not when it was the center of the explosion, and the airport didn’t begin to have the resources to handle those horrible injuries (and that was assuming they survived to reach the airport). No, any survivors they could actually save would have been inside the buildings. And now, _under_ the buildings. She began shifting mostly intact walls, then refined her search to walls without windows. She found her first few that would actually have a chance of remaining survivors — one man was able to crawl out from under when she lifted one side of the burning wall, another she waved for Sharon’s attention then while she lifted the wall crawled under for a little boy with two broken legs (badly broken, but again they’d have to wait to set them when they left).

Then she lifted another wall, peeked under, and froze at the sight of a pair of facedown bodies — female, from the long hair, and one of them young from her size. _Something’s not right_.

This wall she was able to tilt up and up as she walked forward until it tilted forward and crashed down into the street, and she turned back to drop beside the two girls — corpses, they weren’t breathing, though from the amount of blood pooled around them they’d survived for awhile after the explosion. They were oddly dressed, like ... like pictures she’d seen of medieval or renaissance dresses she’d seen. But ... they were familiar....

She reached out, hesitated, then grabbed the smaller girl’s shoulder and turned her face up — and found herself staring at Tilda’s face. Hastily, she grabbed the shoulder of the other girl and flipped her over ... Sigrid’s empty eyes staring unseeing at the sky.

She scrambled backward through the bits and pieces of housing. “No, you weren’t here. You weren’t here!”

Suddenly, Sigrid’s eyes came to life. Her head turned. Blood spilling from her lips, she whispered, “Why?”

/\

Something poked Sakura in the side and she practically levitated out of her bedroll, blankets flying as she snatched up Sting from the smooth stone floor beside her. The warrior’s braid that Thorin had first woven whipped about her face as she looked around wildly, then slumped in relief as in the faint light of the distant glowstones she saw Ori hastily backing up with one of the polearms they’d found in a dusty armory in his hands. He must have poked her with the butt of its shaft. (The second warrior’s braid, actually, after the devastation of Lake-town she’d cut off the first one and thrown it in the camp fire. But Thorin had woven another without saying a word ... she hadn’t fought him about it.)

Shoulders slumping, she lowered Sting and rubbed at her face with her free hand. “I was getting loud?”

Ori shook his head. “No, but you were beginning to thrash around a little.”

She sighed, then glanced up at the strip of slightly lesser dark along the top of the stone wall the Dwarves had built across the Front Gate — almost dawn, no point in trying to sleep any longer. _Especially with my subconscious inventing entire scenarios just to throw Bard’s girls into them — we never approached after the nukes hit, not right away!_ Shaking off the memory of her nightmare, she asked, “It’s your watch?” When the young Dwarf nodded she suppressed another sigh. She’d been thrashing around enough to catch his attention from on top of the wall. “Well, let’s get back up there until your replacement arrives.”

The light steadily brightened, the shadows creeping down the mountain spur that Dale butted up against. Smoke began rising from that kingdom’s ruins as the survivors that had begun arriving almost a week earlier arose and began cooking their breakfasts.

Dwalin hoisted himself up one of the steel ladders along the wall to the walkway at the top. He waved Ori down their campsite where Bombur was cooking the ever-constant stew over a coal fire. It turned out cram wasn’t a total appetite killer, when crumbled up and boiled with the right spices as a sort of stew, but it was getting a little old. So was the lembas Dawlin handed her.

The warrior leaned on the parapet next to where she sat over the drop to the bridge that soared over the River Running gushing out of the Mountain, to the end of the weather-cracked pavement of the road to Dale. He braced his chin on his crossed arms (his ever-present ax still gripped in one hand) and looked out across the valley as she nibbled on the wafer. His gaze was intent as he searched out all the nooks and crannies Sakura had found when she explored the land on both sides of the bridge while the Dwarves built the wall and told the Dwarves standing watch about. Though of course Thorin had brought that exploration to a halt as soon as the Lake-towners had begun to come up the valley and occupy Dale, even if only a small group of men-at-arms had approached the bridge to stare at the wall.

Satisfied that an army hadn’t snuck up during the night to hide about the Front Gate, Dwalin’s gaze shifted to the ruins of Dale. “So many survivors.”

She twisted to stare at him. “So _many_ survivors?”

“Smoke from that many fires? Yes.” He glanced over at her hope-filled eyes, then back down at Dale. “I know how much smoke an army in camp produces. That much down there? Most all of Lake-town must be gathered. I don’t know how they did it, Smaug should ha’ hammered into them like the Valar into Beleriand ... we Dwarves _know_ what a rampaging Dragon can do. I just hope Dain brings a shi — uh, _a lot_ of supplies with him, those people are going to need them. However the people escaped, I doubt me they emptied their warehouses while they were at it.”

Sakura spent the morning atop that wall, staring at distant Dale, wrapped in the blanket that Ori brought her. She’d thanked the young scribe and artist with a smile, before returning her attention to the refugees below. Unlike Dwalin she didn’t have any experience with working out the size of an army by its campfires, but when noon came and fresh fires were lit she had to agree that he had a point — that was _a lot_ of smoke. The ember of hope Dwalin had brought to life grew brighter.

/\

It was shortly after the noon fires had gone out and the smoke cleared away that the brightly armored army marching in disciplined ranks appeared down the valley, marching up the road toward Dale.

/oOo\

Bard strode down the road from Dale toward the approaching army, Saewig with a handful of men-at-arms as bodyguards right behind him. As they closed and details became more clear, Bard felt himself relax — Elves. It hadn’t been likely that it would be anyone else, not this soon, and it didn’t mean that they were out woods (his lips quirked at the phrase), but ... he focused on the two Elves _not_ in armor striding along just off the road beside the head of the column. Yes, one of them was Tauriel.

As if his recognition was a signal Tauriel broke into a jog, pulling away from the army toward him. The strange male Elf with her dressed in the same leathers followed her lead and quickly caught up with her.

Bard stopped as the two reached him and reached out a hand, he and Tauriel gripping each other’s forearms. “It is good to see you again,” Bard said, smiling broadly. “Your mission was a success?”

Tauriel returned his smile. “Yes, behind the leading elements of the army are carts full of supplies.”

Bard’s breath gusted out in relief, even with rationing food was getting tight. “Saewig, have some men guard the wagons when they get here, and the supplies once they’re unloaded.”

“Yes, sir.” Saewig nodded to one of the men with them, ignoring Bard’s twitch. “Daeghun, see to it.”

“Yes, sir.” Daeghun jogged back up the road toward Dale.

Bard turned to the strange Elf and offered his arm. “Bard the Bowman.”

“Legolas, son of Thranduil.”

“ _King_ Thranduil?”

“Yes, _King_ Thranduil,” Legolas acknowledged with a thin smile at Bard’s surprise as the two clasped arms.

“No offense intended,” Bard hastily replied. “Why are you in leathers instead of ... ?” He waved at the army.

“Ah.” Legolas nodded his understanding, turning to watch the approaching ranks. “With our long lives, Elves move from purpose to purpose. For the next century or so I am serving with the scouts.”

“I see.” Bard turned to watch the army as it began to pass him, then looked back along the column until it passed out of sight around an outcrop of the mountain spur. “I’m not sure there’s enough room in Dale for you all, not with the way we Lake-towners have spread out, but there’s open ground to the east between Dale and the River Running. If you aren’t in command of your army, who is?”

Legolas nodded toward an armored figure that had just come into sight, mounted on a massive elk cantering alongside the column. “My father.”

/\

Bard accepted the intricately inlaid silver goblet from the Woodland King’s servant, and surreptitiously glanced sideways at the Master of Laketown in his stained and tattered finery as he sipped from his own goblet and his eyebrows lifted in appreciation. Heartened, Bard took a sip of his own and hid a grimace behind the goblet before carefully placing it on the jury-rigged table the five were sitting around.

Thranduil started to lean back in his own chair, only to freeze as it creaked under him. He carefully straightened and smiled thinly. “So, Lord Bard, wine is not your chosen beverage?”

Bard was tempted to ask that the Elven King drop the ‘Lord’, but didn’t bother. By this time he had given up convincing his own people to not tack on the titles, he doubted his chances of success with the Elves was any better. “No, I’m afraid not. I’m sure it’s a fine wine, the Master appreciates it well enough.” He nodded to the richly-dressed man beside him. “But I’m a beer and ale man. I’ve never ... had the opportunity for anything else, and I find I’m fine with that.”

“Indeed. Well, considering what my son and Tauriel —” He tilted his head to the other two sitting at the table (Tauriel obviously uncomfortable at being included) “— tell me they’ve heard since we’ve arrived, you will have plenty of opportunity in the years to come. ‘Bard Dragonslayer’, your people call you rather than ‘the Bowman’ as you introduced yourself. Will you refound Dale, now that the Dragon is dead?”

“That is for the future, for now I’ll settle for my people surviving the winter.” Bard looked up at the fabric ‘roof’ held up by two poles at either end of the table, stretching over the four walls that had been all that were left of the former home before the refugees arrived. “And survive they will, thanks to your generosity. Besides, I imagine the Dwarves will want to have some say in any plans going forward.”

Thranduil waved off his concerns. “Of course, but they are not here. Nor will they be for some time, it will take awhile for them to learn of Smaug’s death — perhaps not before spring. We would do well to present a united front when they do arrive.”

“It will be earlier than that, much earlier. I am sure the Dwarves sent a message to King Dain of the Iron Hills.”

Thranduil froze, and Tauriel gasped. “They survived?” she demanded.

“Yes, they did. At least, enough of them to build a solid wall across the Front Gate before we arrived. The men I sent didn’t approach closer once they saw the wall, and I haven’t sent anyone else — we had enough concerns of our own, and after all these decades there will be nothing in that mountain that would have helped. And I doubted so few Dwarves would have welcomed as many guests as are camped here in Dale now.”

Thranduil relaxed and nodded thoughtfully. “A wise decision, I think.” He glanced across the table at the scout beside his son, his eyes narrowing. “Tauriel, you seem ... strangely hopeful, considering we are speaking of a Company you met only briefly when you rescued them, and did not see again.”

Tauriel paled, then blushed. She was just opening her mouth to respond, when Legolas spoke up. “She encountered the Ghost once, while that elusive halfling was haunting our halls. They spoke for a time, but Sakura was careful to keep out of arm’s reach then vanished again. Tauriel told me of the encounter, but since nothing came of it there was no reason to inform you.”

Tauriel nodded her agreement, eyes dropping to the table. Thranduil held his gaze on her for a moment longer, then nodded. “I see. I suppose if any of them survived, she would be among their number. As skilled as she is at avoiding notice, how could it be otherwise?” Shifting his gaze back to Bard, he asked, “Have any ravens returned to the eastern spur of the Mountain?”

Bard blinked at the apparent non sequitur. “There have been ravens sighted there, yes. I was surprised to see life returning to the Desolation of Smaug so quickly. Why?”

“Because that was where Ravenhill stood, the watchtower where the ravens allied with the Dwarves of Erebor roosted. They acted as messengers and scouts in exchange for gold trinkets and safe nests. If the Dwarves in the Mountain know of their return, then Dain will already know of Smaug’s death and be on his way with an army of his own.” He sighed, slumping in his chair until its warning creaking had him carefully straightening again. “Yes, your decision to leave the Dwarves unmolested was wiser than you knew. But perhaps it is time to go again, to speak with them before that army arrives. They owe you much for bringing Smaug down upon your heads, and are more likely to grant it if they don’t have an army at their backs.”

Bard gazed thoughtfully at the king, then glanced sideways at the Master and caught his faint nod. Finally, he nodded. “Perhaps you are right. They may even be in need of provisions of their own, they didn’t leave Lake-town with over much. I will go myself, they know me and owe me for my hospitality. Perhaps they will remember.”

“Good.” Thranduil smiled thinly again. (Bard wondered if he knew any other smile.) “However, they couldn’t have missed seeing my army arrive so it would be best if an Elf accompanied you. But not me, my hospitality was not so ... gracious as yours, I am sure, I doubt I would be well received. Tauriel, it seems at least the Ghost’s memories of you will be more pleasant, you will go in my stead.”

Tauriel swallowed, and nodded. “Of course, my Lord.”

Thranduil rose to his feet (careful to avoid putting more weight on the chair as he did). “And now I had best see to my army.” He made his (gracious) farewells and strode from the tent, his son quickly following.

When Tauriel hesitated, Bard suggested, “Why don’t you find my daughters? Bain is with the boats collecting more firewood, but Sigrid and Tilda are helping watch the children and will be happy to see you. I can find you when I’m ready to leave.”

“Of course, my Lord.” This time she smiled as she responded, rising to her feet. “I will be happy to see them, as well.”

Bard watched her leave, then turned with a sigh to the Master of Laketown. “So, Master Godswith, what is Thranduil’s game? His generosity is no surprise, he will want a rebuilt Lake-town that remembers him fondly. But why push us and the Dwarves together? I’d think he would want to keep us apart.”

Godswith frowned thoughtfully. “You remembered your lessons — kingdoms don’t have friends, they have allies. In this case, I suspect he’s realized that he can’t keep Men and Dwarves apart. We’re _natural_ allies, the Men acting as suppliers of goods that Dwarves don’t want to waste their own time producing or acquiring, while the Dwarves concentrate on their crafts. No, I suspect that Thranduil simply wishes to be paid up front. After all, if the Dwarves do give you a share of the treasure you would feel honor-bound to pay Thranduil for all the stores he has brought us, and will be bringing us.”

“Yes, I would.”

“There you have it,” Godswith said with a nod. “Push us toward the Dwarves more quickly, and he gets payment for his generosity, our good will for having brought it without asking for payment in the first place, and doesn’t have to risk losing that good will by using his generosity as a negotiating ploy later.”

Bard groaned, leaning his elbows on the table as he rubbed at his temples. “Why couldn’t I have remained a simple hunter?”

“Because the grandson of the last king of Dale killed a dragon.” The Master chuckled and rose to his feet. “With your permission, I should check on my servants. I ordered them to keep a tally of the supplies the Elves brought and I should see how much that has eased our situation. You’d best be on your way. Don’t forget to have Captain Saewig send a few men with you.”

/oOo\

Tauriel looked around as she moved through the ruined city, toward where the woman doing laundry said the little children, and most of Bard’s children, could be found. (Of course, Tilda fit on both categories, at least as far as age went. But after their escape a Lake-town burning down around their ears, Tauriel was afraid that the youngest of Bard’s children by blood would never _really_ be that young again.) The Elf had to admit that the refugees had things fairly well in hand, so far as circumstances permitted, and it seemed the boats making the runs back down the lake weren’t just bringing back firewood — already some crude walls and doors could be found here and there. _They’re going to need those, once winter really arrives_.

Then she turned the corner to find herself in a large open space of raw earth that she guessed had been covered with grass before it became part of the Desolation of Smaug — a park, she guessed. Now all the entrances to the area except the one she’d come through had been closed off with more of the makeshift wooden walls, and from the horde of children she thought it was now an open-air nursery — a place where the children could run and play to their hearts’ content without their parents worrying that they’d get lost in the not necessarily safe ruins. She suspected that the pair of guards she passed at the entrance was more for giving them some light duty keeping the children in, than any fears for their safety.

But right now those children weren’t involved in any games. Instead, they were sitting beside the dry fountain in the middle of the nursery, all gazing raptly up at Sigrid on the fountain’s edge as she spoke. “And then they remembered that what they had passed was a lamp post. And as they continued on pushing through the brush —”

“Tauriel!” Tilda, not paying as much attention as the rest of the children, was the only one to notice the newcomer. She leaped to her feet and weaved through the crowd, then as soon as she was clear ran over to throw her arms around the Scout. “You’re back!”

Tauriel returned the hug as all the children turned to look at her for a moment, before turning back to Sigrid. “What happened?” “Did they catch the stag?” “Don’t stop now!”

“Easy, easy, I’m almost done,” Sigrid assured them. “Then they weren’t pushing through brush, but clothes. And then they were falling out of the same wardrobe they had hidden in, no longer kings and queens but the children they had been then, on the same day they had left. Peter and Suson, Aedmond and Lucy, were home again in Engalond. But they never forgot the kingdom they had been given to rule. And so it was.”

At the traditional end to a story protests instantly erupted. “No!” “That’s no fair!” “That can’t be the end!”

Sigrid lifted her hands for calm. “Of course there’s another story, but it’ll have to wait for another day. Your mothers —” She glanced up at the sun’s position in the sky. “— will be coming for you soon.”

The crowd of children reluctantly broke up, and Sigrid rose to her feet to stride over to Tauriel to pull her into a hug of her own. “I’m glad you’re back,” she murmured into Tauriel’s shoulder.

Tauriel gently returned the hug with one arm, the other still draped low around Tilda’s shoulders. “So they have you watching children now?”

“One of my many tasks ... cooking, laundry, mending — something different every day, helping wherever I can. And the questions they ask, even people that I’ve known all my life! I can’t believe Sakura did this to us.” Tauriel’s arms tightened as she realized that Sigrid was actually shivering. She searched for words to say, but after a moment she felt the shivering ease off as Sigrid relaxed. “Sorry ‘bout that,” the teenager murmured, “didn’t mean to dump that on you. I’m just tired of being treated like the bringer of all wisdom by people that ought to know better.”

“I understand.” And Tauriel did, at least the need to get a rant off her chest. She searched for something else to talk about, and found one. “Where’s your little brother?”

“Randson is with his wet nurse.” Sigrid finally eased up on the hug, turning so she could look out across the impromptu playground while Tauriel’s arm stayed around her waist. Looking over her shoulder, she waved toward one of the guards behind them. “Trumwulf’s wife, actually, keeping it in the family — _his_ job is to follow me around all day. How boring is that?”

The guard chuckled and was about to respond when Bard strode through the archway, another man-at-arms behind him. Tauriel sighed and released the two girls. “Time to go?”

“Yes.” Seeing his daughters’ disappointed expressions, he added, “Why don’t you join us for the evening meal after we get back?”

“I’m not sure ...” Tauriel hesitated at the suddenly hopeful looks of the girls she’d saved, and caved. “I’ll ask Legolas. If he doesn’t have any immediate tasks for me, I’ll be happy to join you.”

Bard smiled as his daughters cheered. “I doubt he’ll forbid it. But now we’d better get moving.”

Tauriel nodded, gave the two girls quick hugs and turned to go, then paused and turned back. “Sigrid, don’t think Sakura intended any of this. Fourteen Dwarves and one tiny Hobbit against a Dragon? No, they were after something, they didn’t intend to deal with Smaug at all. I just hope she survived.”

/oOo\

Sakura straightened where she still sat on the wall, shading her eyes against the late afternoon sun ... yes, a new group of Men had left Dale and were coming up the road to the Front Gate. Beside her Gloin, the Dwarf currently on watch, was calling down the news to those inside, but she kept her attention fixed on the newcomers.

By the time Thorin ran up the crude steps to join her and Gloin on the wall followed by the rest of the Dwarves, Fili and Kili with bows strung and arrows nocked, the Men were close enough for her to recognize one of them. And not just Men ... “That’s Tauriel with them!”

Thorin frowned. “Who’s Tauriel?”

“The Elf.” Thorin’s face tightened and Sakura opened her mouth to tell him the scout had been the one to tell her about the empty barrels in the basement of the Woodland Realm, then paused — making that public could get Tauriel into serious trouble. After a frantic moment’s thought, she added, “Remember, she was one of the Elves that rescued you from the Spiders ... she carried me to Thranduil’s halls.”

After a long moment, Thorin relaxed. “I remember her. Get down off the wall, you’re making yourself a target.”

Sakura breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of the usual bitter undercurrent whenever Thorin spoke of Elves, and shook her head with a smile. “No bows. And even if they had any, I’d have time to get under cover before they got a shot off. And if I get down, I wouldn’t be able to see — you made the parapet too high!”

“Only for you.”

Sakura looked disgusted, but was inwardly smiling as Thorin’s deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. Perhaps ...

But the humor vanished from his face as he focused on the group walking closer. He called out, “That’s close enough!”

They stopped and Bard and Tauriel conferred for a moment, then Bard stepped forward several paces. He called out, “Thorin, your survival is a welcome surprise! Before our arrival we thought you dead.”

“No, we all live,” Thorin called back. “”Why have you come to Dale? And why approach now when you didn’t before?”

“We come to Dale for its walls and clean water, to see us through the winter. We did not approach you before because I thought you would not welcome guests. For why we come now ... may we approach, at least close enough that I don’t need to shout?”

Sakura held her breath as Thorin hesitated, then breathed a sigh of relief when he called back, “You alone may approach. There is a speaking portal directly below me.”

“And Tauriel,” Balin hissed. “She much be here for King Thranduil, he’ll tell her everything anyway. She might as well get it firsthand.”

Thorin’s jaw clenched, but after a moment he called out, “And Tauriel as well!”

They could see the Elf jerk in surprise, then she jogged forward to join Bard already striding the last paces to the wall. Thorin watched them come for a few moments, then turned away toward the steps. “Balin, attend me.”

Sakura waited, tension coiling tighter and tighter in her gut. Tauriel looked up as they reached the wall, and waved to her with a smile. Sakura forced a smile of her own and waved back but focused on Bard, also looking up. _He looks tired, but not grief-stricken ... his children must still be alive. Please, let it be so!_

“I’m listening.”

At the sound of Thorin’s voice Bard dropped his gaze, focusing on the hole that the Dwarves had left through wall Dwarf-height at its center. He dropped to one knee to speak through it. “Thorin, you came us — came to _me_ — as guests. And while I don’t believe you lied to me, you didn’t exactly tell me the truth, either. If I hadn’t realized who you are and where you had to be headed and raised the alarm, the loss of life would have been terrible as Smaug struck a town asleep instead of one almost empty. But while few lost their lives, the loss of properties and livelihoods was terrible — and you are responsible.”

Sakura winced. She had been surprised when Bard said that _he_ had been the one to send the first Men to approach the Front Gate, she had no idea how a simple hunter and barrel collector had ended up giving orders — but he was obviously no diplomat. Swinging her legs and dropping off the parapet to the walkway, she peered down at Thorin. It was as she’d feared, the Dwarf now by possession of the Arkenstone come into his own as King under the Mountain was stiff with anger.

Thorin growled, “Do not speak to me of loss of property and livelihood, we Dwarves lost all that and many lives as well, when Smaug first came. And Thranduil was not as kind to us as he was to you — no army marching to our aid, no wagons of supplies, merely a flat rejection of our pleas for help as he cowered in his Halls. We, here, did our best to slay Smaug, Sakura actually throwing herself at that monster’s red-hot breast. If she had been just slightly higher, you wouldn’t have known of Smaug’s death until my cousin Dain arrived from the Iron Hills.”

Balin stepped forward, laying a hand on Thorin’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off as he listened to Bard’s response.

“I believe you. I saw the bleeding hole gouged in Smaug’s chest. Even if I hadn’t placed the last dart from my grandfather’s windlance into the hole you provided he would have bled out soon enough, not that anyone seems to want to listen to me. But as true as all you said may be, it does not change your responsibility for awakening the beast, and for the damage he inflicted before he died.”

Afraid using the steps would take too long, Sakura stepped over the edge and dropped. Even as she fell she reduced her weight to almost nothing, grabbing at the occasional protrusion to slow her fall just enough that when she hit the smooth stone floor and tucked into a roll she didn’t risk breaking her ankles. Riding the roll back up to her feet, she turned to find a Thorin still stiff with anger and a bemused Balin staring at her.

“Well?” Thorin growled.

Sakura’s mind went blank. She’d thrown herself into the discussion without thought of what to say, eager to prevent the oncoming disaster, and now she didn't know what to _say_. And then she knew. _Thorin is_ not _going to like this_.

Thorin was turning back to the speaking hole when she spoke. “We have a contract.”

Thorin froze. Without turning back, voice flat, he said, “What.”

“We have a contract, I signed it back at Bag End. One-fourteenth of the treasure piled up in that pit is mine. Give it to them.”

_Now_ Thorin turned around, face flushed, tense with anger. “You would _pay off_ those that abandoned my people to _wander and die_ in the wilderness?”

“I would give the people of Lake-town a fresh start, keep Thranduil’s hooks out of them. And Bard is right, we owe them for what our failure — _my_ failure — cost them. That treasure is mine, to do with as I will. Give it to them.”

Thorin’s face had been growing even more red, but at that his expression blanked. After a long moment he abruptly nodded, then turned and strode away toward the depth of the Mountain.

Sakura watched him go, her chest tight, then turned to Balin. “He agreed. Ask about Bard’s girls ... children.” When Balin nodded she looked up at the Dwarves along the wall, all of them now staring down at her, then turned to follow after Thorin. She knew where he was headed, the throne room with its drifts of gold — he’d been spending more and more time there, as the days passed. (Not that there was much of anything for anyone to do, except wait for Dain.) She’d take other paths to the secret entrance, sit up on the edge of the alcove and stare at the horizon for awhile.

/\

Balin watched the two walk away and sighed. _What a mess_. He was grateful for Sakura’s intervention, his king had been about to make an incredibly bad decision thanks to old never-healed scars on his heart, but the _way_ she did it!

Turning back to the wall, he stepped over to where Thorin had been standing. “Bard, did you hear that?”

“No ... Bwalin?”

“Balin. One-fourteenth of the treasury is yours. You will understand if we wait until Dain arrives to actually share it.”

“Of course ... thank you for your generosity.”

Balin’s shoulders slumped and he leaned against the wall, for a moment feeling every one of his many years. “Don’t thank me, lad, it wasn’t my decision. Are your bairns well?”

“You mean my children? Yes. Yes, they are.”

“I am glad to hear it, and I won’t be the only one. Perhaps Sakura will sleep better.”

“There are others who are not.”

“I know, but it is the people we know whose loss hurts the worst.”

“Yes ... do you have any injured? Medicines and healers came with the army.”

“Thank you, but we are all well. Sakura was the worst off —” _Again!_ “— and she’s mostly recovered.” He sighed again, and straightened. “It’s getting toward supper and you have what you came for, you’d best be getting back to your children.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll return with Dain, when he arrives.”

They exchanged farewells, and Balin turned to follow Thorin and Sakura into the Mountain. Both would be easy enough to find, but ... _Sakura first, I think. She needs some good news_.

/\

As Tauriel fell into step beside Bard to return to the waiting men, she wondered what she should do with what she’d overheard ... and that Bard apparently hadn’t. On the one hand Sakura deserved recognition for what she’d just done for the Lake-town refugees, and there were a pair of young girls that needed to know that the visitor they had liked so much in the few days they shared still cared enough to ask about them. On the other hand there was an army of Dwarves approaching that would care little for Elves, and that the Men huddled in Dale’s ruins blamed for the ruin that had fallen on them. A little good will from Sakura’s generosity spilling over onto the Dwarves could go a long way to easing initial tensions.

_The girls ... yes, I’ll tell them during supper. Bard can decide if he wants it to go any further_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's my solution to the problem of Lake-town's demands on the treasure piled up in Erebor. I have to wonder why it hasn't been used more in fanfics (though admittedly I haven't read too many Hobbit fanfics, perhaps it is). I suppose one can argue that with Hobbits' disregard for gold, it just didn't occur to Bilbo.
> 
> The chapter title comes from the title of the Phil Collins song:
> 
> It was one of those great stories  
> That you can't put down at night  
> The hero knew what he had to do  
> And he wasn't afraid to fight  
> The villain goes to jail  
> While the hero goes free  
> I wish it were that simple for me
> 
> Chorus:
> 
> And the reason that she loved him  
> Was the reason I loved him too  
> And he never wondered what was  
> Right or wrong  
> He just knew  
> He just knew
> 
> Shadow and shade mix together at dawn  
> But by the time you catch them  
> Simplicity's gone  
> So we sort through the pieces  
> My friends and I  
> Searching through the darkness to find  
> The breaks in the sky
> 
> Chorus


	34. Open Heart

Gandalf winced as Radagast’s sled jolted over yet another pushed up cobblestone in the road leading to Dale (leaving behind the sentries posted down the vale — the Men on foot hopelessly slow, the mounted Elves pulling up and letting the Istari go on their way when they recognized the pair). He had recovered from the tortures he had suffered while imprisoned on Dol Guldur, the Istari needed only time to heal any wounds they initially survived, but that didn’t protect him from _new_ injuries — such as spots rubbed raw from bouncing around in the sled thanks to their hasty journey. The fact that he was soaked from the light but constant late Fall rain wasn’t helping.

The journey had taken longer than Gandalf had expected. They’d had to swing wide circling around the Orc army moving north along the eastern borders of Mirkwood. (He wished the bloody atrocities the Orcs had left in their wake as they’d rolled over the households and villages on Mirkwood’s eastern fringe weren’t distressingly familiar.) And they’d had to stop several times to allow Radagast’s Rhosgobel rabbits to graze, even sustained by their master’s magic they couldn’t run all the way to Erebor with just what they could eat when the party stopped for the night.

Still, all of that had been expected. What had _not_ been expected was to arrive at the inn at the ferry dock across the Long Lake from Lake-town to learn that Smaug was dead, Lake-town destroyed, the many survivors moved to Dale, and no word of the Company — or rather, _too much_ word, all of it rumor and hearsay. The Dwarves had unleashed Smaug on Lake-town, and were holed up in the Mountain waiting for a Dwarven army to arrive and finish off the survivors. No, Smaug had rolled over the Company before burning Lake-town, and the Master was conspiring with the Elves to keep all the gold for themselves; a Dwarven army was on the way to drive away the Elves and refound the King Under the Mountain and wealth would once again flow through Dale. No, the Company had hidden from Smaug and was holed up in the Mountain, Lord Bard had decided to starve them out before seizing what the survivors of Lake-town were owed (whoever _Lord Bard_ was, no one in the inn seemed to know and the rumors about him ran from a lost prince to an Elf in disguise); the Elves were there to protect the Men from the Dwarves and see justice done.

Gandalf had soon given up on sorting out fact from fiction, and Radagast hadn’t even tried. Though one thing had been undeniable, just from looking around as they painfully bounced their way up the road — Smaug was definitely dead. It was the wrong time of year for plants to sprout, and he doubted that any seeds had survived the long decades of Smaug’s presence anyway, new growth would have to wait for the warming days of Spring and fresh seed to be planted or blow in on the wind. But already some birds had returned. _Ravens, now that I think of it_. Gandalf frowned thoughtfully.

The rabbits pulled the sled up over one another of the low rolling hills of the open land between Erebor’s spurs (Gandalf remembered when it had been covered with farms along the river and small herds of sheep and cattle beyond them), and Radagast pulled back on the reins to bring the sled to a stop. For a long moment the Istari stared at the small city of brightly-colored tents outside Dale, beside the river running along Erebor’s south-pointed spur — within sight of the Front Gates but not so close that anyone holding those Gates needed to worry about being overwhelmed by a sudden rush. The shining armor of the regiments below the camp practicing their evolutions left no doubt just whom those tents belonged to.

“Well, at least that much of the rumors is true — that has to be the Woodland Realm’s entire army, near about.”

Gandalf nodded his agreement. “Yes, and from the amount of smoke above Dale, it’s a good thing — with that many survivors the Men will need all the help King Thranduil chooses to offer to survive the winter.”

The two watched the closest regiment flawlessly shift from a marching column to a line of battle, and Gandalf finally shrugged. “Let’s find out if that display is intended to impress, or intimidate.”

/\

Sakura sat on the parapet, leaning against the far wall with one leg along the top of the parapet and the other dangling over the edge, watching the rain swirled about by the breeze sweeping around the Mountain as her fingers played along the finger-holes of a flute she’d found in the debris abandoned in the streets of the Upper Halls. As with Sting, the size and placement of the holes indicated an instrument made for a child — an instrument beloved enough to carry from that child’s home during the panic when Smaug came, but not beloved enough to be recovered when dropped in their haste. Given how close the streets and stairways of the Upper Halls were to the Main Road, the odds were good that that child had escaped from the Mountain. The odds were less good that that child had survived the hungry time that had immediately followed but if he or she had, Bofur (the toymaker in the Company) had told her that the distinctive carving that ran the flute’s length would still be remembered — especially since a child’s flute with the doleful tone intended for dirges had to belong to the child of a songsmith.

She winced at a shrill shriek as her fingers once again missed their mark. Her parents had insisted that their children learn _something_ of their actual homeland rather than just some odd mix of Scottish and Japanese cultures, and she’d picked the Navajo flute. This flute’s low soft sound wasn’t an exact match, but she doubted she’d find an exact match in this world and it was close enough — now if only she’d kept up her practicing during the War or bothered to pick it up again after her arrival in Hobbiton! But no, she’d been too busy bed-hopping between missions and training, and then after her arrival all angsty and trying not to think about everything and everyone she’d left behind....

“Someone’s coming!”

At Oin’s shout she jerked upright and twisted to stare down the vale, raising one hand to shade her eyes as she peered through the drifts of rain — a small party approaching ... all Men (and men) ... something familiar about the one striding in the front, gray robe with his hood up, rough staff almost as tall as he was, long gray beard.... They reached the far end of the bridge and the old man continued on alone. Sakura’s eyes widened in recognition, a grin spreading across her face. “That’s Gandalf!”

Even as Oin shouted the news to the Dwarves within, she laid the flute on the parapet then swung over and scampered down the outside of the wall. As soon as the wizard stepped off the bridge she threw herself at him, leaping up to wrap arms and legs around him, her head pressed against his soaked robes. “You’re all right!”

Gandalf chuckled merrily, one arm circling her shoulders. “Yes, I’m fine.”

After a time she reluctantly swung her legs down and let go to drop to the ground, then stepped back to look him over. “That’s a new staff. And what happened to your hat? You figured a hood would keep the rain off better?” She looked him up and down again, taking in the rain dripping from his beard. “I’d say it didn’t work.”

“The staff belongs to Radagast, I’m afraid I lost staff and hat at the same time.” He looked up at the top of the wall. “And there’s Thorin, I’ll tell you of it when I tell him.” He called up, “Thorin, come down, we need to talk!”

Thorin gazed down for a moment, shifted his gaze to the Men at the other end of the bridge, then nodded shortly and called down to the Dwarves inside. A few minutes later a rope was tossed over and he clambered down to join Wizard and exuberant Hobbit. He smiled faintly at the sight of her broad grin — since hearing that Bard’s children had come unscathed through Smaug’s attack her nightmares had eased, but the Dwarves still missed her earlier smiles.

Refocusing on Gandalf, he banished his own smile. “Tharkûn, you’re late. Was your quest successful?”

“It was, the Necromancer has been driven out of Dol Guldur by Galadriel, that fortress once again held by the army of Lothlorien. The price was not even as high as it might have been, its defenders powerful but few and banished with their master.” Thorin flinched, and Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “You’ve guessed who those defenders were?”

“Mortal Men, at one time ... nine?”

“Yes. You have not mentioned this to anyone?”

“Balin, no one else.”

“Good. I ask that you keep it that way. The White Council will see to it that word spreads to those in a position to prepare, but there is no need to panic the people — not yet.”

“Agreed.”

Gandalf sighed with relief at Thorin’s easy acceptance of his request, before sobering. “Unfortunately, the reason Dol Guldur was so lightly held is because the army that had gathered there had already left, traveling east along Mirkwood’s southern edge then north. Part of the reason I am so late even with Radagast’s help is that we had to swing wide to the east to circle around the army and avoid the Warg scouts.”

Thorin froze. “How soon?”

“Days, perhaps less than weeks. Radagast’s Rhosgobel Rabbits proved themselves faster than Wargs again, but we were seen — with surprise lost they may slow their pace to arrive fresh, or pick up their pace even more to arrive before possible reinforcements.” Gandalf grinned wryly at Thorin’s amused snort at the equivocation, and asked, “Are there reinforcements?”

Thorin hesitated, but finally, reluctantly, nodded. “My cousin Dain is on his way, with his army.”

“Will he be here in time?”

Thorin frowned thoughtfully. “It ... will be close.”

Gandalf sighed, turning to stare down the vale past Dale as if sheer willpower and wishing could make an army of Dwarves appear out of thin air. Beat after beat passed, until he finally turned back around. “Thorin, we can’t wait that long ... we need to hold a council of war _now_ , have a plan in place that Dain can step into when he arrives. You need to meet with Bard ... and Thranduil.”

Sakura stiffened at the Elf king’s name, and surreptitiously looked up at Thorin. As expected, his face was turning red and she thought she could hear his teeth grinding. She held her breath....

“Very well.” Thorin’s anger wasn’t strong enough to keep him from chuckling slightly at her explosive sigh of relief. “Balin will come with me, Dwalin will stay to lead until our return.”

Gandalf nodded. “And Sakura.”

“Me?” she squeaked in shock at her sudden addition to the party. “Why me? I don’t know anything about battles!”

Smiling down at her, Gandalf said, “Perhaps not, but Bard asked it — his daughters want to see you again.” That smile vanished when Sakura paled, and he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “They do not blame you for what happened, Sakura. Though Sigrid says you owe her another story.”

Sakura took a deep breath and jerked a nod. “Right, I owe them at least that much. I’ll come.”

/oOo\

As soon as Sakura stepped into the makeshift meeting room — the four walls, at least, were original stone construction but the ‘door’ was a blanket and the long-vanished roof replace by, she thought, some kind of sail-cloth — she found herself wishing she hadn’t come. Since the day she’d given away her share of the treasure heaped up in the Throne Room, he had been ... confused ... when he was around her — as if he didn’t know whether to be angry or happy. That hadn’t changed on their short walk down to Dale, and the lift to her spirits at the sight of Tauriel standing next to her seat alongside Legolas was quickly dashed by Thorin’s reaction to the sight of Thranduil — he seemed to be winding tighter and tighter with every beat, to the point that she was wondering if she would end up having to protect the haughty Elf from physical harm ... from the worried glances Balin was giving his king, the advisor was probably wondering the same thing.

Bard, bless him, had taken one look at Thorin’s expression and, other than the invitation to Sakura to dine with his family that she had feared but reluctantly accepted, abandoned any pleasantries he might have attempted (to the chagrin of the stout, well-dressed man next to him, from the way he grimaced). After the newcomers had removed their cloaks and hung them on a stand to steam by the fire in the room’s smoky, makeshift fireplace everyone took seats around the large table — Thorin and Balin on the opposite side from Thranduil and ... Legolad? Sakura remembered him leading the Elven scouts that joined her in rescuing the Company from the Spiders but was vague on his name. Sakura and Tauriel took one of the empty sides (the box on the chair making clear which was for Sakura), and Bard and two other Men took the other. Gandalf stayed back, leaning against one wall. Sakura was beginning to think that Gandalf might have shaded the truth a little when he said he was ‘fine’.

Once everyone was seated the new leader of the Lake-town refugees made introductions for the two Men she didn’t recognize — the well-dressed man turned out to be the Master of Lake-town, to Sakura’s surprise (she wondered how he’d fallen from leader to advisor) — then saw to it that everyone had goblets of wine or tankards of beer or ale and got down to business.

“Your Majesty,” he started, ducking his head in a semi-bow to Thorin, “how soon will the army from the Iron Hills arrive?”

Thorin stared at him for a long moment, shot a glare at Thranduil, glanced at Balin out of the corner of his eye, took a long gulp from his tankard, and finally sighed and gave in to the inevitable. “Nine days before Gandalf’s news, but tomorrow I will send a message for him to push the pace. With that he should be here in seven.”

“Good.”

With that, the meeting turned to placement of troops and areas of responsibility, whether they should send out Scouts (they would have to be Elvish, since only the Elves had horses to match the wargs of the Goblins), plans for differing outcomes from the Goblins shattering against the Elves and Dwarves lines stretching from the River Running to Erebor’s eastern spur, to forcing through in the center or either flank. (The Men were relegated to holding Dale behind the Dwarves, with their archers firing over the line of battle — while they had some training, they lacked the hardened veterans that filled the ranks of the other two races.) Sakura quickly became lost in the mass of details and leaned back to let her mind drift ... as, she noticed, did the Master of Lake-town. Bard was trying to follow the flow of the debate, but the Man Bard had introduced as Captain Saewig was carrying their side of the sometimes loud discussion.

Finally the initial arguments seemed to have come to an end, much to Sakura’s relief, with an agreement to meet again the day before the battle or once Dain arrived, whichever came first. Though now that the meeting was over and it was time for her to meet the girls, butterflies were coming to life in her stomach.

As everyone rose to their feet and made their farewells, Bard motioned to a servant standing by the entrance. The servant ducked through the blanket hanging in front of the doorway, and a moment later held the blanket aside of more servants carrying packs. “Food, in case you’re short,” Bard explained.

Thorin stiffened and Sakura held her breath ... and Balin lightly touched his king’s arm. After a moment Thorin jerked a nod and growled, “My thanks.” Sakura slowly blew out her breath — she doubted the Company would actually eat any of the gifted food, not with Thorin’s suspicious nature, but it least he hadn’t insulted their host by refusing it outright.

Tauriel grinned at her, and Sakura suspected that she hadn’t blown out her breath quietly _enough_ , not for Elves. Pointedly ignoring the Scout, she flipped her cloak off its hook on the stand and was just clasping it about her neck when Thranduil cleared his throat. “Your Majesty.”

Sakura froze in place, watched out of the corner of her eye as without a word Thorin turned back around the face the Elven King. Thranduil continued, “The White Gems of Lasgalen. Once the Orcs have been dealt with we _will_ discuss their return to their rightful owner.”

Thorin simply gazed at him for a long moment — not even a glare, just a flat stare — then turned to Sakura. “We’ll be looking for your return tonight, however late.” Sakura nodded, silently accepting the implicit order that she was _not_ to spend the night in Dale, and Thorin swept from the room with Balin hurrying after him. Gandalf gave Sakura an inquiring look, but followed the Dwarves when she shook her head.

Sakura relaxed, feeling as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders with the abrupt absence of the threat of instant violence that came from Thorin and Thranduil sharing a room — she _really_ hoped she could avoid any future strategy sessions.

Bard seemed to feel the same way ... at least, he seemed to both relax and stand straighter as he turned to Sakura. “Now, I believe there are a boy — excuse me, a _young man_ — and a pair of girls that are eager to see you again.

“If only for another story about Narnia.”

“That, yes, but not just that.” Sakura waved a hand, as if pushing the statement away, and Bard smiled gently. “Come on, you’ll see.”

“Actually ... could you go ahead? There’s something I want to talk to Thranduil about first.”

Bard hesitated, glanced over at the Elven king as he raised an elegant eyebrow, but before either could say anything Tauriel spoke up. “Go ahead, Bard. I can bring her when she’s ready.”

Thranduil’s other eyebrow joined the first, and both stared at her for a long moment before Bard nodded. “The girls will doubly happy, they have become quite attached to you.” He made his own farewells, and left with the Master of Lake-town and Captain Saewig following.

As soon as they were gone Thranduil sat back down, brushed some dust fallen from the sail-cloth ‘ceiling’ off one segmented pauldron of his embossed armor (seemingly pure silver, but considering the wealth of the Woodland Realm and its long proximity to the Dwarven craftsmen of Erebor before the coming of Smaug, probably not). He started to lean back and froze when his chair creaked, tried to recover his show of nonchalance with a sip of wine from his gold goblet (ignoring Sakura’s smothered giggle).

Placing the goblet back on the table, he asked, “So what business would Thorin’s hired thief have with me?”

Tauriel stiffened at the blatant insult, but Sakura simply walked over and hopped up onto the chair plus box where Thorin had been sitting — she was still sitting low enough that she had to look like a child sitting at the adults’ table, but she just shrugged and replied in Quenya instead of the Westron everyone had been speaking throughout the meeting. “A paid thief that has Thorin’s ear, sometimes at least.” Thranduil started at her assertion as much as her switch in language, and she smiled thinly. “These White Gems of ... Lasgal? ... you mentioned, they are the same gems of pure starlight you mentioned when we first met, aren’t they? Why are they so important?”

“The White Gems of _Lasgalen_ ,” Thranduil corrected, also switching to Quenya. “And their importance is ... personal.” He paused, but when Sakura merely gazed at him, waiting for more, he swallowed and stiffly added, “They once belonged to my wife. I gave them to the Dwarves, asked them to give create a setting worthy of them. But they decided to keep them for themselves, and so demanded a payment for their work that was absolutely ridiculous, _far_ beyond what they normally charge.” He hammered an armored gauntlet on the table, making his goblet jump. “No necklace could be worth what they demanded, even if it was pure mithril!”

Sakura’s mind raced, thinking over everything she’d been told about Dwarven culture, how it applied to what Thranduil had just told her, and her eyes widened as the pieces clicked. She folded her arms on the table and dropped her head down on them. “I do not believe this.”

Thranduil’s lips thinned and he started to rise from his seat. Legolas and Tauriel exchanged glances and Tauriel motioned toward him. He sighed and nodded. “So tell us, _Little One_ , just what it is you don’t believe.”

Sakura’s head shot up and she glared at the smirking Elf, then, noticing Thranduil on his feet, waved toward his seat. “Sit back down, and I’ll explain what I think is going on.”

Thranduil hesitated, but finally returned to his seat.

Sakura straightened with a sigh, then leaned back in her own chair. (No worries about _her_ weight breaking furniture.) Speaking slowly as she thought it over again, she asked, “When you handed over the gems, did you say anything about giving them to their finest crafters?”

Thranduil frowned as he thought back over the decades. “Yes, I did.”

“And I’ll bet they did just that — and that’s the problem.” She looked around at the Elves’ uncomprehending looks. “A Dwarf’s highest aspiration is to leave something behind after they are gone, something to announce to all who see it, ‘ _I_ was here, _I_ was skilled, _I_ could produce beauty’. It’s not just the crafts, of course, their master bards are held in high esteem as are historians, lawgivers, people like that. But it’s the crafters that work with stone and metal that have pride of place — the masterworks that are eternal unless destroyed. And those masterworks are family heirlooms, passed down generation after generation with the stories of their creators. They are part of their _heritage_. And of course, _those_ works are never sold — what they sell to outsiders are the dregs, the knock-offs; what they sell to each other better but not much, there’s no _heart_ in it beyond professional pride in turning out a decent product.

“But this time, I’ll bet they did just what you asked — gave the gems to one of their master crafters, to create a setting worthy of those gems. And I’ll bet that that crafter deeply regretted that his — or her — masterwork was going to be sold. And relieved when you refused to pay what they considered to be a fair price. When you refused they offered to pay you for the gems, didn’t they?”

She paused when there was no response, cocking an inquiring eyebrow until Thranduil reluctantly admitted, “Yes, they did.”

“And you refused, of course — for you those gems are priceless. But you didn’t tell them why, did you?”

Another long pause. “No.”

“So neither of you knew just why those gems are so important to the other. What a mess.” Sakura ran her hands through her hair, her fingers catching for a moment on her braid. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do to fix this. But I’m going to have to wait awhile, being around you always tightens Thorin up like an ...” She paused as she realized she didn’t know a term in Quenya for ‘overwound spring’. “ ... he becomes less ... reasonable. He’ll need some time to relax.” She sighed as she thought about how much _fun_ that conversation was going to be (she rather doubted Thorin would be taking that odd pleasure in their disagreements anymore), then took a deep breath. “And now, I have a dinner to get to and I’m — _we’re_ — late.”

She looked over at Tauriel, and the Scout nodded. “Yes. By your leave, My Lord?”

A thoughtful Thranduil looked up at her, his eyes narrowing, and Tauriel stiffened under his gaze. But he simply nodded and waved toward the door. “Of course.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgement for a moment as Sakura hopped down from her high seat. As she walked under the blanket over the doorway Tauriel was politely holding open for her, she tried to distract herself from thinking about the coming dinner by wondering what was going on between Thranduil and Tauriel. It didn’t work, she could feel butterflies springing to life in her stomach again. _It’s going to be a marvel — a Hobbit that can’t eat. And they aren’t even going to know how miraculous that is_.

/oOo\

Tauriel was still smiling when she returned from escorting Sakura back to the Front Gates. (She’d felt it best to guard the Hobbit on her return — the new Lord of Dale and his family might have forgiven Sakura for her part in awakening the Dragon, but that didn’t mean the rest of the refugees had, and the dark of early night plus Sakura’s size might have given some vengeful soul ideas.)

The little get-together with Bard’s family, along with the girls’ bodyguard and the wetnurse he was married to, had started with Sakura’s tearful request for forgiveness, and more tears in Sigrid arms when that forgiveness was easily given. Then had followed shared stories of the dangers they’d each gone through as they ate ... slowly, the children often staring wide-eyed at Sakura’s reluctant tale, Sakura the same as first Bard then Tauriel told their own.

Then when the meal was over and Sakura had ended the evening with a long tale of three children that found themselves on a ship named the _Dawn Treader_ , and their adventures on island after island as they sailed for the Uttermost East. It had been a marvelous story, if utterly fantastic, and the children had hung on Sakura’s every word and protested when she announced she’d reached the end. They’d forced their tiny friend (though not as tiny as Reepicheep, Tauriel thought with a giggle) to tell them more later ... _not_ a promise that weighed heavily on Sakura, from the cheerful tune she’d been softly singing in some language the Elf had never heard before, all the way back to the Front Gate. The rain had even moved on, leaving the friendly stars shining down.

Yes, all in all it had been a wonderful day.

Just as she arrived at the outskirts of the ruins of Dale a shadow detached from a wall to turn into Legolas, stepping into the moonlight. “Tauriel, my father wishes to speak with you.”

And just like that her good mood vanished.

/\

The king was pouring himself some wine when Tauriel nervously stepped into his tent softly lit by hanging oil lamps. It was luxurious, its fabric of the finest Spider-silk in green and blue patterns, the cot ornately carved as was the two collapsible chairs and desk — everything portable and easily and quickly broken down, as befit a warrior king. But no one would mistake them for the gear of a common warrior.

“Ah, Tauriel, so our Ghost has safely returned to her Company?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“And the afternoon with the family of Dale’s new king — even if he hasn’t quite come to accept that yet — it went well?”

“Very well.” She couldn’t help smiling. “They easily forgave her for helping bring Smaug down on their town — had already forgiven her, really, and her tale of what she did in an attempt to kill the Dragon made it certain. Though I suspect they’d forgive her almost anything for another one of her stories.”

“Indeed.” Thranduil took a sip of his wine. “You have gotten ... attached, to these Men.”

It was a statement, not a question, and it hit Tauriel like a lightning bolt — she admired Bard and liked his son well enough, and cherished the baby (as was right for all such little ones), but without her even noticing those two girls had wormed their way deep into her heart and she suddenly realized that she could not imagine life without them ... and she was in serious trouble. The tale of Beren and Luthien was the most famous such romance, thanks to their descendents having ruled the island of Numenor then the successor kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor after it sank, but it was far from the only tale of Men and Elves trying to build lives together — and few of them ended well.

The expression on her face must have given away her shock, because Thranduil sighed. “You hadn’t noticed.” He filled another goblet from the wine bottle and handed it to her, then sat down and waved her to the chair opposite. She dropped onto her seat, slopping some of her wine onto her leathers. She ignored that to take a couple deep gulps before setting down her goblet on the desk’s writing surface and looking at her king. His face was stern, as usual, but she thought she could see sympathy lurking in his eyes. “They are mayflies, Tauriel, terribly fragile and gone in the blink of an eye. Even if Bard survives this battle and doesn’t die of one of the diseases that afflict Men, he will be lucky to survive another forty years. His youngest daughter will be lucky to outlive him by thirty, if childbirth doesn’t send her away first. It would be well for your heart if you do not stay to see it.”

Tauriel stared at him, wide-eyed, her heart already breaking from the images his words evoked, then picked up her goblet for more deep gulps, treating the fine wine like water. Setting down the empty goblet, she stared at the tent’s silk wall as Thranduil silently refilled her goblet ... which she promptly emptied. As he refilled the goblet again, she hoarsely said, “Are you speaking from experience?”

“I’ve never given my heart to a mortal, but neither have you.” He paused to sip his own wine, eyes shadowed with memory. “Sometimes we speak as if Dagorlad was the only battle of the War of the Last Alliance. It wasn’t. The preparations leading up to that battle took years, and those years were filled with battles as both sides maneuvered for position and sought to deny their enemies resources and allies. I fought in many of those battles, some under my father and some independently, and both Men and Dwarves fought alongside me and our woodland kin.

“Then came the final great battles, and most of us died ... those of the Men and Dwarves I had come to count as brothers as well as my father and our own kin. But in the end we won, and returned to our homes to rebuild what we could with the few that survived.

“And in the blink of an eye, every Man that had survived that war, those that I had come to count as brothers, were dead. Lingering wounds, disease, accidents, petty wars as some survivors squabbled among themselves, and in the end simple old age. The Dwarves lasted slightly longer, two eye blinks instead of one, and then they were gone as well.”

He paused to lift his own goblet, several gulps of wine this time rather than just sips. “There was one Man, he was magnificent — a warrior almost to rival our own, whose followers hung on his every word, who understood that a war is more than glory on the battlefield ... that it is about keeping your people supplied, about not forgetting those left behind, about what comes after. His men marched with ours to the final battles, and we fought back to back in that chaos. After it was all over and it was time to return to our homes, I promised to visit him. And I did ... once, to find him made king of his people, married with two strapping sons and a daughter just entering womanhood. My second visit found him twenty years dead, his eldest son long king in his place with grandchildren of his own.

“Tauriel, it is best for us to stay apart from the younger races. They journey on to whatever destiny the Singer has created for them, and leave us behind.”

Tauriel took several gulps of her own wine, though this time not emptying the goblet. “I cannot leave until after the battle,” she said, voice hoarse.

“Of course not. But after ... you have chosen to Wander so I cannot command, but I would advise that once this is settled you go on your way. Walk among the trees of Lorien, seek the Peace of Rivendell. Visit the fallen grandeur of Gondor or ride with the horsemen of Rohan, if you wish novelty. But do not return until centuries have passed.”

Tauriel finished off her goblet, then when Thranduil stood hastily rose to her feet. “I will think on your words, my Lord. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome.” He reached down by his cot, picked up an unopened wine bottle and handed it to her. “Think deeply and well. My son is fond of you, I would not see you wounded as I was.”

She accepted the gift and bowed, then left still half-dazed by the evening’s revelations, both of her king's experience and her own heart.

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter, and only one more to go before the final battle! And yes, the situation with Tauriel is taking a decidedly different turn than it did in the movies....


	35. One More Night

Thorin sighed at the sound of Sakura’s flute as he climbed the much improved steps up to the top of the wall across the Front Gates. (The Dwarves of the Company had needed _something_ to occupy their time, improving the wall had seemed the obvious choice.) She had improved a great deal over the past week, but that had made the melancholy nature of her chosen music even more clear. She swore that she wasn’t playing dirges, just the slow, contemplative music of a desert people, but none of the Dwarves were sure they believed her.

With the battle the next day, he was even less sure now. It was more dirge-like than usual.

He reached the top, and from her seat on top of the parapet Sakura glanced at him out of the corner of her eye before letting her current tune trail off. She wiped the flute’s mouthpiece clean and tucked it away in a pocket she’d sewed onto her leathers, right next to the pocket holding a pair of rings. All the time she kept her gaze fixed on the view before them, and Thorin suppressed a sigh. She _was_ the one on watch, but that was carrying devotion to duty a bit far. Especially considering the way she’d been a little nervous around him since the first planning session.

Placing the leather bag he was carrying at his feet, he crossed his arms and planted his elbows on the top of the parapet as he gazed down toward Dale. He was grateful that they were the only ones up there — it was currently Sakura’s watch (not that even he really thought a watch was needed by now), but the location was a favorite of some of the Company. But at the moment the scent of the delicious stew Bombur was cooking for supper was wafting up to the pair (made with some of the supplies from Dale that Thorin had finally agreed to allow to be used), everyone else was gathered around below eagerly waiting for it to be done, and Sakura’s relief wouldn’t be up until he’d eaten. _So let’s get this over with before he shows up_. “Tomorrow’s the battle.”

“Yes.” Having finished putting her flute away, Sakura rested her hands on the parapet and bounced her legs hanging over the edge against the wall, now apparently watching the sunset. The only thing spoiling the image of a bored child wishing for something to do was her pensive expression. After a few minute’s silence she began to speak.

“Last night I had the strangest dream  
I ever dreamed before.  
I dreamed the world had all agreed  
To put an end to war.

“I dreamed I saw a mighty room.  
The room was filled with men,  
And the paper they were signing said  
They'd never fight again.

“And when the papers all were signed  
And a million copies made,  
They all joined hands and bowed their heads  
And grateful prayers were prayed.

“And the people in the streets below  
Were dancing round and round,  
And guns and swords and uniforms  
Were scattered on the ground.”

Without looking at Thorin, she continued, “I know we’ll never be rid of war — even if the Goblins and ... and worse that rule them all vanished tonight, there’d still be causes worth fighting for. That even leaving aside those of us that hunger for power and glory, war happens when reasonable people can’t agree and it really is that important. But sometimes I wish —” She broke off and shrugged.

Thorin pondered her recitation. “A chant?”

“A song, translated from the original. But I’ve never cared for the music, it’s too cheerful for the subject.”

Thorin chuckled. “Not if you play it on _that_ flute. It seems Dwalin was right when he said that you were no warrior.”

“He said _what?_ ” Sakura turned her head to stare at him (for once practically at eye-level). “After all we’ve been through?”

“Don’t misunderstand, he thinks you may be the deadliest killer he’s ever met, anywhere but on an actual battlefield. But for the true warrior there is a glory — a _rightness_ — to war. He is never so alive as when he is marching into battle, surrounded by his comrades. But it’s not like that for you.”

“No, it isn’t. I’ve done what’s needed and taken pride in doing it well — joy in the lives I’ve helped save — but I’d rather have been doing something else.”

“What I thought. Dwalin is actually looking forward to tomorrow, intends to join Dain’s army as soon as it arrives, his brother can't talk him out of it and I can't order him not to. And you —”

“Will be in Dale, with the women and children.”

“Sakura —”

“I _will_. I know I can’t fight on the battlefield — I’m just too small, I don’t have armor, and my Veil can’t help me with arrows addressed ‘to whom it may concern’. As for my bow, from my practicing the past few days I’d say I’m accurate enough, but my bow just isn’t strong enough ... _I’m_ not strong enough ... to get the kind of range a battlefield calls for. But the children like my stories well enough, their mothers will be grateful for my help. So I’ll stay with Tilda, Sigrid ... Bain too, Bard’s already ‘asked’ him to ‘guard his sisters’. And if the fighting does reach Dale ...” She shrugged. “Things will be so bad they’ll need every blade. Those ruins are my kind of hunting ground, anyway.”

Thorin glared at the Hobbit glaring right back at him, fighting to keep his lips from twitching with wry mirth. She reminded him of a kitten he’d once seen face off against a guard dog ... and force it to back down. He knew he had a temper, a cold fury that few dared face, and even those few would try to placate him — something he’d used to his advantage a few times. But this tiny almost-child had no interest in placating him, she would do as she saw fit and it was up to _him_ to talk sense into _her_. Which he’d only managed once (probably because she already knew herself to be in the wrong) and clearly wasn’t going to manage this time.

“Oh, very well,” he finally said with a sigh. “Will it offend you if a few of the Company join you in Dale?” He chuckled. “I’ll have to use Bard’s ‘request’ to his son on Dwalin — all the Valar know you've made it reasonable. You’ll have a bodyguard, I think.”

“I ... you ... you ...” Finally, it was Sakura’s turn to sigh. “Oh, very well.”

“Good.” Thorin smiled at his success, looking out across the valley again. “At least the rain’s moved on, early enough to mostly dry out ... no mud tomorrow, and no dust.” He took a deep breath of the clean air, without a hint of the cooking fires from Dale before straightening “But you are wrong about one thing, you have armor.” He reached down for the bag by his feet, pulled it up and plopped it on the parapet between them. Undoing the buckles, he reached in and pulled out a chain-link shirt, the links seeming almost white but shimmering in the setting sun. “The Elves aren’t the only ones that made things for their children.”

Sakura’s jaw dropped. “Is ... is that ... ?”

“Yes, mithril.”

“Wow.” She reached out to gently stroke the finely-made mail shirt. “That shirt has to be worth more than everything in the Shire! You’re taking quite a risk loaning it to me. If anything happens to me, you may not get it back.”

“It isn’t a loan, it’s a gift.”

“What?!” Sakura stared at the shirt, wide-eyed, then at Thorin. Hesitated. Gusted out a breath. “There’s something I need to tell you, that I learned after the first planning session. I was thinking to tell you after the battle, but that’s cowardice speaking. It’s the White Gems of Lasgalen. Thranduil didn’t realize what it meant when he asked for their setting to be created by your finest crafters, he expected something somewhat better — and somewhat more expensive — than your usual trade goods ... and those gems belonged to his wife — his _long dead_ wife that he still misses to this day. It’s about family.”

Thorin had felt himself starting to tense at the name of the Elven king, the heat in his cheeks that signaled his face going red with fury, but the words ‘wife’ and ‘family’ were like a dash of cold water. Sakura had little of the Dwarven care for the work of her hands, if any, but one thing she shared with Dwarves was her care for family ... _any_ family. And there was a ... glitter? ... in her eyes that was familiar. He cudgeled his mind, trying to remember, and paled when it finally came back to him — he’d seen that same glitter in his grandfather’s eyes, gazing at the heaps of treasure in the Throne Room. Oh, it was much less obvious in the Hobbit, a glint where in Thrain it had blazed, but she lusted for Family like a dragon-sick Dwarf lusted for gold. _And what do_ your _eyes look like, staring at Smaug’s bed day after day?_ Thorin felt himself go lightheaded at the thought. As he stared wide-eyed at the Hobbit once again gazing down at a Dale fading into the gathering dusk, he resolved not to return to that room until those gathered heaps had been sorted and moved to the treasury where they should have been all along. _That’s all fine for later, Thorin, but you have a scared Hobbit waiting for a response. Speak_ very _carefully, or she’ll never speak to you again_.

He rubbed at cheeks gone cold and carefully cleared his throat. “What do you suggest?”

Sakura tensed, but didn’t turn to look at him. “Give the gems to Bard as part of his fourteenth, at whatever price you think is fair. Let him give them to Thranduil as payment for all the help they’ve received.”

Thorin leaned on the parapet, mithril shirt wrapped about crossed arms. “Seems reasonable.”

“What?!” Sakura’s head whipped around, her eyes wide.

“Yes.” Thorin grimaced. “You’re not the first to suggest it, Balin beat you to it.”

Sakura stared at him for a long moment, then started to grin. “You yelled at him.”

“Yes.”

“A lot.”

“Yes.”

“You ranted.”

He dropped his forehead down on his arms. “For hours.”

“You’re blushing, aren’t you?”

He didn’t reply.

She laughed softly after a moment, then asked, “So why is it so reasonable now?”

From the fading heat in his cheeks he thought it was safe to look up again, so he straightened and shrugged. “I had a ... revelation. About what’s important.” He uncrossed his arms and lifted the mithril shirt. “So why don’t we see how well this fits?”

Sakura’s smile at his unspoken acceptance was so brilliant it should have lit up the falling night.

/oOo\

Looking around the table in flickering candle-light, Tauriel really wished Sakura was there. It was quiet ... very quiet, the only sounds the occasional thunks of wooden spoons as Bard's family ate the stew of their last meal together before the battle. Randson was spending the night with his wetnurse (and would until he actually slept _through_ the night), Bain was sulking, and Bard was undoubtedly reviewing the battle plans covered during the last alliance council that day, but Sigrid and Tilda were scared and Tauriel didn’t know what to do about it. _Sakura would know_.

With the scouting of the Orc horde approaching from the south given over to those Scouts accompanying the army that were both mounted and armored, Tauriel had spent a lot of time with the childlike Hobbit over the past few days, both while Sakura had sparred with Orc-sized opponents, practiced her archery, and helped entertain the children with Bard’s daughters. The Elf had been storing up memories for future drought, and Sakura with her games and stories and the smiles and laughter both brought out of not just Sigrid and Tilda but all the children — and the way she’d refused to let Tauriel remain a spectator — had been an incredible help. (Though Tauriel hadn’t had the chance to ask what the Hobbit’s comment about ‘wallflowers’ had been about.)

But Sakura wouldn’t be back until the morning, and when she did arrive she would be busy keeping the children (and their mothers) from panicking.

Tauriel had never been around so many children ... and such _energetic_ children ... in her life.

 _So what would Sakura do?_ As soon as she thought it, the answer was obvious. “Sigrid, Tilda, as soon as you’re through with supper, how would you like a story? I may not be the storyteller Sakura is, but I know a few. Bain, you too, if you want to join us.” She smiled at the way the two girls’ faces lit up, though Bain shaking his head was no surprise — he’d already said earlier that he was ‘too grown up’ for bedtime stories.

“Bain, you should join them. It isn’t every day you get the chance to hear an Elvish tale.”

Surprised by Bard breaking his silence for the first time since the stew had been dished up — his mind undoubtedly focused on the next day, and the question of whether Dain and his army would arrive before the Orcs — she glanced over to find him smiling gratefully, lifting his mug in a silent salute. He mouthed a silent _thank you_.

She smiled back and started going over the various ballads, she’d have to pick one that would be a good story for two non-Elvish girls without the music to give it depth.

/\

Tauriel followed Bain out of the room Sigrid and Tilda were bedded down in, letting the blanket fall closed. The yawning young man mumbled good night and stumbled his way into the room he shared with his father. Tauriel smiled as she watched him go — she had been guided in her choice of story by the ones Sakura had told, and the three children had apparently enjoyed it — then blew out the candle and put it on the table in the middle of the room.

Striding through the door to the street, she was surprised to find Bard already there leaning against the wall, staring up at the full moon.

He straightened up and fell into step beside her. “Thank you, again. Hopefully they’ll get a good night’s sleep now.”

“I was happy to do it, they’re sweet girls and Bain’s a good boy.”

“A good man, as much as I might wish otherwise. He’s grown up since Smaug. Now he just needs experience.”

“So young?”

“He’s a Man, not an Elf.”

“True. Forgive me, this is my first Wandering. I don’t really know about the world beyond the Realm, outside of the songs.”

“I wasn’t offended, though I would have been at his age. The young are always touchy when they’re determined to be old.”

“A difference between Men and Elves, our children take longer to physically mature and so they sort of ... drift into adulthood somewhere about the end of their first century.”

“Their first _century?_ ”

Tauriel shrugged, the motion undoubtedly unseen in the dark. “In a life that covers millennia, what is a century?”

Bard was silent for a long moment, before replying, his voice thoughtful. “The tales all speak of the deathless Elves, but I’ve never thought of what that really means.”

“We’re hardly deathless, you’ll have ample truth tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow.” Bard fell silent for a time, until they reached the edge of Dale’s ruins. Stopping there, he turned to face her. “Tauriel, if Dain arrives tomorrow before the Goblins, we should be fine. But if they don’t, there will be only your King’s army and what little we of Lake-town can add holding them away from Dale and the Mountain’s Front Gate while Dain takes them from the rear. Either way I will have to take my place with Captain Saewig leading our men. I will do so more easily knowing you are watching over my girls.”

“That is no hardship, my lord — Bard,” she replied, remembering what he’d said about addressing him in private. “I have ...” She broke off for a moment as her throat tightened, her voice going husky. “I have grown very fond of them.”

“Nevertheless, since I may well be gone before you join them in the morning, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He offered his hand and they clasped forearms, then he turned away to return to his family as she continued on to her tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Sakura chants is "Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream," written by Ed McCurdy in 1950. In this case, Sakura is giving my own opinion — the upbeat tune doesn't fit the lyrics _at all_. But I'd guess that's because I have a fundamental disagreement with McCurdy on human nature and so where for him the lyrics are hopeful, for me they are wistful.


	36. The First Casualty of Battle

Tauriel sat on the rim of the same fountain where she had found Sigrid telling tales days earlier, a Man child in her lap clinging to her, offering what comfort she could as the drums of the approaching Orc horde almost drowned of the wails of frightened children. Throughout the morning, as Dain’s Dwarves had won their race with the Orc horde approaching and was slotted into place on the left against the river, Sakura had been holding the children enthralled with yet another of the infinite number of stories she seemed to know — until the Orcs arrived and the drums had started to beat. Now she, Sigrid and Tilda were doing their best to help those children’s mothers calm the other children, though Tilda was hampered by the tears running down her own cheeks.

Movement by the entrance to the square caught Tauriel’s attention and she glanced over to find Legolas standing there next to a still-disgruntled Dwalin leaning against the wall, eyes wide as he took in the cacophony. He still was dressed in his green and brown leathers, so his armor hadn’t arrived in the night. Not that she’d expected it, suspected that Thranduil had quietly arranged for the armor to be ... delayed. From his stiff manner with his father, she suspected he thought the same.

His eyes found her and he motioned for her to join him. _Right, how to do this_.... She looked around, called out, “Sakura!” Hobbit ears weren’t as sharp as Elves’, but they were good enough — the top of Sakura’s head popped up above the children around her (many of them taller than her, she must have been standing on tip-toes), looking for whoever had called for her. Tauriel waved to get her attention, then nodded toward Legolas before lifting up the boy in her arms slightly — an orphan that didn’t have an adult to help him that wasn’t already occupied with children of her own. Sakura nodded and dropped back down out of sight, though Tauriel could follow her progress through the crowd, a disturbance larger than a single Hobbit worming through the crowd should make ... a disturbance explained when Sakura popped out of the crowd to join Tauriel, swiftly followed by a line of children.

Sakura followed Tauriel’s gaze sweeping across the newcomers. “Children without mothers, their fathers are archers or along the edge of Dale, just in case.”

“I see.” Tauriel tightened her embrace of the boy in her lap. “This is Burhred. He’s an orphan, but I can’t stay ... Legolas wants to speak with me.”

Sakura nodded, eyes softening. “Got it.” She glanced around at the children surrounding them, then raised her voice over the thundering drums. “Saegyth, I don’t think he’ll take me seriously.”

One of the older girls forced a grin. “I don’t know why, you’re no larger than he is, and cute, not even ...” She glanced at the hilt of Sakura’s sword showing over her shoulder, ran her eyes down along the bright, shiny mail the Hobbit had arrived wearing over her leathers that morning, then sighed and sat on the fountain rim next to Tauriel.

It took a few minutes of murmured encouragement to get Burhred to unclench his grip on Tauriel’s leathers, and the Elf Scout slipped out of her seat so Saegyth could take her place. Tauriel picked up her bow from where it had been leaning against the fountain rim, checked the set of her quiver, and hastily made her way across the plaza to Legolas.

As soon as she reached him he spoke, just loud enough for Elvish ears to hear him over the drums. “My father has pointed out that with the Orcs coming from the south we have neglected to keep a watch on the north.” He nodded to the mountain spur north of Dale. “He has ordered me to scout the ground on the other side of the ridge, and ‘suggested’ that I ask you to join me.”

“Of course I will,” Tauriel instantly agreed, trying to hide her guilty relief to be away from the crowded square full of terrified children. From the way Legolas’s lips twitched, she’d failed miserably. _I’m sure your father is happy to have a ... reason ... to get you as far from the battle as he can_. “Go ahead, I’ll let Sakura, Sigrid and Tilda know where I’m going and catch up.” Legolas nodded his acknowledgement and hastily left as she turned to once again brave the crowd.

It only took a few minutes to pass along word of her new task, and she easily caught up with Legolas just past the outskirts of Dale — spending all her time with Sigrid and Tilda, and Sakura when the Hobbit joined them, she’d come to know the ruined city well — and the two crossed the open space between the edge of Dale and the edge of the spur (whoever had placed the city had been wise enough to make sure to was out of catapult range, even with the help of added height) and began to climb. She had never seen Dale before Smaug’s coming, but from all the weathered stumps and exposed roots the mountainside they were climbing had once been heavily forested and it broke her heart to think how beautiful it once had been. _And will be again, now that the Dragon is gone. Give it a century and some care, and all will be as it was_. Though with the trees gone and no underbrush grown up much of the top soil had been washed away. She would have to suggest to Bard that he ask Thranduil for help bringing the green back to the Mountain, or at least his part of it. She certainly couldn’t make that suggestion to Thorin! Though maybe Sakura —

She reached top and, remembering Carelwen’s long-ago advice for scouting outside of forests, carefully peeked over the crest while keeping low to avoid skylining herself, and froze at her first sight of the other side ... and the huge horde of Orcs approaching from the north. Beside her, Legolas was also staring, wide-eyed. She twisted to stare down behind them ... the Orcs from the south that Mithrandir had warned them of were advancing; the Elves’ first arrow flights were soaring over the lines of warriors between the archers and the enemy; a few hopelessly optimistic Orcs were returning fire but were more likely to have their arrows fall on their own people, and those few Dwarves with crossbows would open fire at any moment as the range fell, to get in as many shots as possible before they were forced to fall back through their lines and pray they wouldn’t be needed again — with crossbows’ flat trajectory, that would mean the Orcs had broken through their lines.

The battle had already begun.

She twisted back around to stare at the new Orcs — there were _at least_ as many as the Orcs from the south, and those had already almost matched the combined Elven and Dwarven armies. She whispered, “Where did they all _come_ from?”

“Gundabad,” Legolas whispered back, “there’s nowhere else in the North that has such numbers. But how did they coordinate ...” He broke off, started sliding back down the mountain. “That doesn’t matter, only that they are here. I’ll look for my father and Mithrandir, you warn Bard.”

“Of course.” The two scrambled down the hillside, much faster than their assent.

/oOo\

_A few minutes earlier:_

Standing on top of the wall across the Front Gate, Thorin glared down at the armies down the vale just past Dale. Dwalin was down in that ruined city, watching Sakura as she watched the Men’s children. The rest of the Company was stretched along the wall, watching the unfolding battle.

(There had been no argument with Dwalin, as Thorin had half-expected — the lifelong warrior’s sense of duty to his king had held — but he had _not_ been happy about his assignment. But he had to agree, however unwillingly, that if anyone needed looking after even if only in close proximity to a battlefield, it was Sakura ... whether by fate or whichever of the Valar that had brought her to their world, it was all too likely that it wouldn’t remain that way.)

There were no surprises in the battle’s layout. Dain’s infantry had their right flank up against Erebor’s east-running mountain spur to the north, stretched southeast across the front of Dale to meet the Elves at the center of the vale, crossbow-armed scouts in front, the bow-armed Men of Dale providing missile support from atop Dale’s ruined wall behind, while the crossbow war wagons Dain had brought (two-storied, so those crossbows could fire over the heads of the infantry in front) provided covering fire from behind the lines from the edge of Dale to the center of the vale. The Elven infantry in full armor (but with utility sacrificed to beauty — it had been all Thorin could do not to laugh in Thranduil’s face once, when Dwalin had whispered that they’d be the prettiest corpses on the battlefield), its right flank abutting against the Dwarven left, the line stretching southeast to the River Running hard against Erebor’s southern spur, the Elven archers stationed behind the infantry ready to fire on the shouted commands of the infantry commanders in the ranks in front of them.

The Goblins were no surprise, either — a swirling chaotic mass approaching at a trot that he knew would soon turn into an all-out charge. If he was closer, he knew he’d be able to more-or-less pick out the groupings of the individual war bands that made up that mass, but at such a distance —

He stiffened, then leaned forward, squinting. He wished Sakura were beside him, with her sharp eyes — now that he thought of it, that would have been the perfect excuse to keep her at the Front Gate instead of down in Dale — but he _thought_ he could see a large band of Goblins mounted on Wargs up on the side of the northern ridge, already behind and to the side of the charging horde. What were _they_ up to?

Closer movement on the mountain spur north of Dale caught Thorin’s eye and he struggled to make out what else had caught his attention: two figures climbing toward the ridge, visible only because they were moving ... in their drab clothing, if they stopped they’d vanish into the dead brown of the lifeless dirt and rock of the Desolation of Smaug.

_What are_ they _doing?_ he wondered. _There was no mention in the strategy meetings of scouting to the north, and the Goblins are ... are already here_. He switched his gaze back to the Goblin horde holding back from the battle, then back.

As the rest of the Company watched the unfolding battle below, talking back and forth excitedly as the Goblins approached and the first arrows arced out to meet them, Thorin watched the two climbers. Only Balin noticed his distraction. The white-haired councilor leaned over and whispered, “What’s up, laddie?”

Thorin’s lips quirked. “You’ve been spending too much time talking with Sakura.” Sobering, he motioned toward the climbers. “ _They_ are ‘up’.”

Balin caught sight of the climbers and stiffened but said nothing, simply watching with Thorin as the distant pair reached the top of the ridge then, after a few moments, began scrambling back down the mountain at a _much_ faster pace than was safe.

Balin sighed. “That’s na’ good.”

“No, it isn’t,” Thorin agreed, now wishing he’d kept Dwalin with the rest of the Company. As much as he feared Sakura was going to need Dwalin’s protection, he _really_ wished he had their most experienced warrior’s advice right now.

The pair continued to watch Dale as the rest cheered the first crossbow volleys of the Dwarven scouts, fell silent as those scouts fell back through the ranks and those ranks closed up behind them and the first volleys from the Men of Dale and the Dwarven war wagons reached out. The Goblin horde broke into a full run, charging through the arrow- and quarrel-storm to hammer into the Elven and Dwarven lines, and the distant sounds of screams and clash of metal on metal, the peculiar mix that made up the noise of battle, reached the watching Company’s ears.

Then a tiny figure darted out of Dale’s east gate, bounding toward them in impossibly long, low leaps. At almost the same moment more, larger figures appeared, racing from Dale for the northern ridge.

Balin sighed and straightened. “There it is, that’ll be Sakura coming to tell us the mothers an’ bairns are coming our way. How is she _doing_ that? She’s no grasshopper.”

“No, but she might be as light as one,” Thorin replied absentmindedly, gaze still focused on the gate Sakura had come out of ... yes, there were the first of the women and children pouring out of the city behind the Hobbit. _And why aren’t they already here? Why didn’t anyone suggest they move here days ago? It’s certainly a lot safer than a ruined city with broken walls!_ But as soon as he asked himself, he knew the answer ... because he wouldn’t have agreed, would have broken off any talks of cooperation entirely. The tirade he’d rained down on Balin just for suggesting an obvious way out of their impasse with Thranduil over the Gems of Lasgalen would have seemed mild by comparison.

“Is that Sakura?” “What is she doing?” “Who’s all those Men behind her?”

The sudden babble of questions let Thorin know that the rest of the Company had finally noticed the approaching refugees, and he turned away from the view to head toward the stairs. “Yes, that’s Sakura, along with the women and children from Lake-town. There’s more Goblins coming from the north, their men-folk are climbing the ridge to meet them. We need to clear a path. Bifur, Gloin, the ... three central charges, I think. Let’s not open up the path _too_ widely. Be ready to set them off as soon as Sakura gets here.”

/\

Sakura bounded along as fast as she could go, her heart in her mouth. Sure, at her current weight she could put John Carter to shame when it came to bouncing around like a flea on a hot skillet, but she was _not_ on Burrough’s Barsoom and gravity was _not_ her friend — it didn’t care what she weighed, only what she massed, and a fall from as high as she could jump could well kill her. That left long, low leaps as the only way to go, but even that was not without its dangers, not with how badly the road had deteriorated over the decades. One mistimed landing and she could snap an ankle, and wouldn’t _that_ be embarrassing after everything she’d gone through on this quest?

Then she was at the bridge to the Front Gate. One leap landed her in the middle of the thirty-foot span across the river, right on the edge. She teetered for a moment over the deep rushing river, desperately pushing off again for the top of the wall — almost too much in her haste, only an equal desperate twist and grab let her latch on to the top of the parapet before she soared over into the Main Road beyond. She slammed down onto the walkway, pain shooting through twisted arm and her head bouncing against the parapet. For a moment stars spangled her vision, but she ignored them to shout, “Thorin! Balin!”

“We saw, Little One, the women and children are coming. Come down so we can clear them a way.”

_Clear a way?_ The stars fading from her vision, Sakura, wondering what Balin was talking about, looked around for the rest of the Company, squinting in the dim light both through the Front Gate and reflected down by mirrors. (The beginning of the Main Road was brighter than it had been, once the wall had been completed Balin had set some of the Company to locating the closest mirrors and wiping them clean of decades of accumulated dust.) Finally, she noticed Balin, wearing the armor all the Dwarves had been putting on when she’d left that morning, waving at her from beside one of the pillars that ran along both sides of the Main Road. She gave him a curious look, then dropped from the walkway, catching bits of protruding rock like she had when Bard had visited. Once on the floor she trotted over to join him, noticing the others behind other close pillars ... Gloin, across the road, was holding a torch. “What’s going on?”

Balin stepped behind his pillar and motioned for her to join him, then nodded to Gloin. The miner shouted out something in Khuzdul and leaned down to touch the torch to a ... rope? ... Sakura hadn’t noticed on the floor. The rope caught immediately, the flame racing along it toward the wall.

_That’s not a rope, it’s a fuse!_ She looked up at Balin. “What did Gloin shout?”

“In Westron it’s ‘Fire in the hole’,” he replied as he shifted so she was between him and the pillar.

_Fire in the hole? Fire in the hole!_ Sakura dropped to the floor and curled into a ball, hands over her ears and mouth open, her bare head and leather-covered legs and arms tucked underneath Thorin’s gifted mithril mail. Since it was mail rather than plate, or even segmented, armor it wouldn’t help much against blunt force trauma, but it was better than her leathers.

Then the floor seemed to slap against her, bouncing her into the air, as world-shattering rolling thunder washed over her. Then ringing silence returned, except the sounds of chunks of rock bouncing off pillars and walls and hitting the floor. She rose to her knees and peeked around the pillar, squinting through the smoke and rock dust to find the wall the rest of the Company had labored on except for a few paces at the far left was gone. She twisted to stare up at Balin again and shouted loud enough that she could hear herself over the ringing in her ears: “You built _blasting powder_ into the wall?!”

Balin shrugged, and shouted back, “Easier to remove the wall, no?! You’d better get back out there, before the women and children run all the way back to Dale!”

Sakura’s eyes widened as she realized that he was right, and she swiveled her head to stare at the bridge ... the bridge with no railings, that she’d just almost fallen off of. “Right, the women and children,” she muttered, then took off across the rubble-strewn road to the bridge at a dead run.

/\

Thorin watched Sakura take off like a scared rabbit, looked over at Balin.

His counselor shouted, “The women and children!”

_What does_ that _mean?_ Then he grimaced as he realized what their reaction would likely be to the explosion that had cleared the wall.... _Perhaps we should have sent Sakura back with word of what was coming, first_.

But it was done, and beyond his control. He hurried over to the one section of wall still left — a sympathetic explosion had taken out the other far end — and hastily looked it over. As best he could tell it was still stable, so he scampered up the ladder there that they’d used until they’d built the now-obliterated stairs.

Once at the top he glanced toward Dale’s refugees — he was surprised to find that the women and children _weren’t_ racing back to the ruins, though they _had_ come to a stop and were milling around — and Sakura bouncing toward them as enthusiastically as she had to the Front Gate. _Leave that to Sakura_.

He looked up at the Men that had been scrambling up the ridge, to find they also had stopped for a moment, but were resuming the upward climb. He watched for a moment, lifted his gaze to the top of the ridge, estimating their spread ... _We have a problem_. He began running for the Front Gate and the bridge beyond, shouting, “Everyone, follow me!”

Everyone did.

On the other side of the bridge Thorin turned to face them (no one having tripped over debris and fallen off the bridge in their haste, though Bifur had just outside the Front Gate and come within a hair’s breadth of driving the axe blade half buried in his skull the rest of the way in). Waving his arm toward the Men still climbing, he said, “There’s more Goblins on their way, on the opposite side of that ridge.”

He paused for a moment to let that sink in. it was easy to tell which of the Company had already seen combat. Balin, of course, already knew; most of the rest stared up at the ridge, eyes going wide; only Gloin looked up at the ridge, traced the length of the line of Men scrambling up its side, blanched, and turned to stare at the mob of women and children once again approaching as fast as they could — which, considering the age of many of the children, was not very fast.

So Thorin spelled it out: “The Men will do their best, but their line isn’t long enough and they don’t have time to fix that. Goblins — leakers, since most will be going for the easier climb by Dale — are going to be coming over the ridge _there_.” He pointed at the length of ridge crest closest to the bridge. “And when they do, they are going to find that mob of women and children bunched up right _here_ ” — he pointed at their feet — “because the bridge has no railings and so they’ll be going across two abreast _at best_ , keeping to the center of the span. And we’re going to be all that’s between them and the Goblins.”

He glanced over the now pale eleven Dwarves with him, and quickly considered. Ori was the youngest, so he was a given. “Ori and ...” after months on the road Oin’s finery was more than a little soiled and tattered, but it _was_ finery. Only Balin had more presence, to make the women listen to him, and the counselor along with Gloin were the two most experienced fighters still there. “ ... Oin, you two will state here, make sure the women take the children across the bridge in an _orderly_ fashion. We don’t have time to get rope, we won’t be able to help anyone that goes into the river. And tell them to stay by the Front Gate. If they go exploring and get lost, we may not find them again before thirst kills them.” The two nodded, and Thorin turned and started for the ridge. “The rest of you come with me.”

/oOo\

Bolg paced back and forth as he stared down from his hillock up the side of the north ridge at the battle starting below. Behind the massive white Orc, his personal companions — the Warg Riders that had followed him for years, the warriors that had reveled in the power his new status as the Lidless Eye’s appointed war leader had given — shifted uncomfortably and the sounds rising up of clashing steel, screams and battle cries. Their blood demanded that they be down there, leading the warriors charging into battle with the stone herders and leaf eaters. It had taken all his fury and lopping the head off the most outspoken complainer among their number to convince them to stay with him. But now he needed to make it work, or he’d be served up for that night’s victory feast.

And make it work he would. While he had nothing but contempt for the weaklings that were the leaf eaters and stone herders and only grudging respect for the pale shadows of almost-Orcs that were Men, one thing he could not deny was the way their ability to make and carry out plans sometimes gave them victories their weakness should not have allowed. So this time _he_ had the plan — the hordes of Moria and Mordor that he had led out of Dol Guldur would hold the stone herders and leaf eaters in place, the horde from Gundabad would pour over the ridge behind them and overrun the Men in their ruined city then take the armies in the rear, and at that moment he and his companions would charge down and break the link between the two armies. Then once the massacre was complete they would turn on whatever few were cowering in the Mountain and make it their own.

He was beginning to drool a little at the thought of the victory feast that the battlefield would provide, when Worthag shouted, “War Chief, the Men!”

_The Men?_ Yanked from his daydream, Bolg focused on Dale. The archers that had been firing over the heads of the Dwarven lines in front of the city’s ruined walls were gone! Where ... ? Motion on the ridge to the north of the city caught his eye, and he twisted to stare at the stretched out mob of Men scrambling up the mountain toward the ridge crest.

Before he had a chance to react to the sight thundering blast echoed down from the head of the vale, and he whirled to see smoke billowing out of the Front Gate into the Mountain. He had never seen the like but had no doubt what it was, from his peoples’ chants — the stone herders’ death powder that they delighted so much in using for traps. He could only hope that they’d somehow blown up themselves ... and then fresh movement caught his eye, on the road leading from Dale to the Front Gate: another mob that had to be Men, come from the ruins.

_They know about the army out of Gundabad, and are wasting effort to protect their weak and useless, like always_.

But they would fight like maniacs in defense of the weak and useless, and — he twisted to stare at the Men scrambling up the ridge, gauging their progress — would almost certainly reach the top of the ridge before the Gundabad army. And they’d have the high ground, and plenty of archers. The Gundabad Orcs could probably still break through, but it would take time while the leaf eaters and stone herders chewed up his own army. Victory would still be theirs, but war chief out of Gundabad would claim it as his — and the Mountain with it.

_Let him have the Mountain, so long as I have a great triumph here before the city! Then_ I _will have the men, and the spoils of the battlefield to feed off of while his own men feed off their own inside the Mountain. But to do that_ ...

His gaze swept the battlefield, then focused on the stone herders in front of the city. Unlike those farther south, they had none of the small mobile towers full of crossbowmen behind them ... they had been dependent on the Men for missile support, and those Men had abandoned them. _That_ was where the stone herders would be weakest.

He turned to his men, then his eyes fell on the only woman with them, dressed in rags, mumbling to herself, eyes wild: the Voice, through whom the Lidless Eye spoke, and through whom Bolg spoke to the Eye. Normally the Voices never left the Orcs' caverns and fortresses, hiding their existence from those the Orcs preyed upon. But this time he had order a Voice brought with each army, to by used to make sure that both armies would arrive on the same day. He could use her now to demand that the other army slow down, give him more time....

_No, even if they haven’t slit their own Voice’s throat yet, they must already be climbing the other side of the ridge. Their war chief would never listen._

He nodded at the Voice. “Kill her, we go now.” He strode over to his own Warg, ignoring the meaty thud of a sword stroke as he took the beast’s reins from Worthag, pounded his fist against the Warg’s nose when it snarled at him, and leaped up onto the pad on its back. Pointing at the chaos of Orcs and stone herders in front of the ruins, he shouted, “There! We ride!” He pounded his heels into his Warg’s flanks and leaned forward, charging down the hill with his pack of Companions baying behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One problem with _The Hobbit_ is somehow making thirteen Dwarves important to the outcome. Tolkien hand waves it a bit, just having Thorin  & co. bring down the wall they'd built across the Front Gate and leaping out to join the fight at a crucial moment. Jackson rightly realized that wasn't going to work on the big screen, but his own answer was ludicrous, at least as he portrayed it — no army, ever, responded to flag signals as instantaneously as the Orcs in the last movie, so Thorin and co. going after the signal mechanism makes no sense. So here's my answer to that problem — the Company not being vital to the battle's outcome in the sense of winning or losing, but vital to the possibility of a victory that can be celebrated instead of mourned.
> 
> And as I think I commented in another story, the first casualty of any battle is The Plan.


	37. New Wine in Old Bottles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been _way_ too long since my last chapter, partly due to bad health, partly due to work, partly due to a distraction that turned into an obsession. But I'm over being sick, work is settling down again, and the obsession has _mostly_ burned itself out (though it gave me something to do while I was on sick leave from work). I intended to have the last big bang entirely in this chapter, but considering both how long this already is and how long it's been it's two chapters instead. So I'm figuring three more chapters to finish this story, one to finish the battle, one to get Sakura home, and the epilogue.

Gandalf turned at the sound of someone using the ladder at the back of the war wagon he was standing on top of. The Dwarvish war wagons were little more than barely mobile forts, stuck in place on the battlefield and would slow down any army other than Dwarves, but they did provide some height for viewing a battle. Not that either Dain or Thranduil were using them for such—Thranduil had his riding stag, and Dain was in the front line and undoubtedly already stacking up Orc corpses.

To the wizard’s surprise, the head that poked up into sight belonged to Legolas ... and from his expression, a deeply worried Elf. Without even waiting for Legolas to join them on the already crowded roof, the wizard demanded, “What’s wrong?”

Then, before Legolas could answer, he turned and swung his staff. A slash of light arced out, and a half-dozen wobbling Orc arrows dropping down toward the tower were swept from the sky. (There had been some grumbling about crowding from the Dwarves stationed on top of the tower, when he’d joined them. That grumbling had abruptly died the first time he’d done that.) Interference dealt with, he turned back to the newcomer.

“There is another army of Orcs coming over the north ridge. They hadn’t started to climb when we saw them, so the Men should reach the ridge line before them — but not by much, and they’ll need support.”

Gandalf paled. “Another — ! Mount Gundabad.”

“That is my thinking, also.”

“Have you told Dain?”

“No. The Dwarf in charge of the reserve sent a message, but Dain is already in the thick of the fighting and unlikely to be able to break free even if the messenger survives long enough to find him. Some crossbowmen have been sent to support Bard, but not enough to significantly weaken the reserve.”

Gandalf turned to stare out across the battle in front of him then up as movement drew his attention to the higher bench on the north ridge that had earlier caught his eye. He absentmindedly knocked more arrows out of the air, then sighed. “No, Dain isn’t going to be able to break free ... a fresh band of Warg Riders are coming straight at him. Find your father and tell him what’s happening and ask for what support he can send, I’ll seek out Bard.”

‘Of course.” Legolas smiled thinly. “I was on my way to do just that when I saw you up here. _Father_ will be with the reserve, where he should be.”

He dropped back down the ladder, and Gandalf quickly followed. He didn’t have much hope that Thranduil would be able to send any more troops to Bard than the captain in charge of the Dwarvish reserves, Nuri, had. _In fact, I’ll have to stop with Nuri on my way and let him know his king is going to need more help — I doubt he could see over Dale’s ruins from his location, he won’t know about the fresh Orcs charging straight at Dain_. And Thranduil couldn’t afford to swing his line back, that would pull his left flank away from the river and the Orcs would go around that open flank and swarm him. He couldn’t afford to significantly weaken his reserve, either ... if the Orcs broke through his line anywhere and weren’t hammered back immediately, it would be just as bad. _We’ll just have to hope that the Men of Lake-town can hold the ridge line. They have_ some _training, their families are behind them, they’ve been mostly resting for weeks, and those Orcs will be going straight from a long march into combat and charging up a steep ridge. Maybe Bard can hold_.

/\

Sakura stopped and stared at the nine Dwarves jogging away from the bridge head toward the ridge, spreading out as they went, then collapsed forward onto her hands and knees when Tilda ran into her. If she hadn’t been walking in front of Bard’s daughters, the mob of old men, women, and children she was leading to the bridge might have run right over her. Fortunately, Sigrid stopped and created a safe space.

“Where is the Company going?” Sakura muttered, too curious to be embarrassed as she accepted Dwalin’s helping hand to pull her to her feet. With a muttered thank you she picked up her bow and quickly checked it for damage, happily finding none — after bringing it all the way from the Shire it would be embarrassing to have it broken right when she needed it most — then pushed her way back to the front of the crowd and looked around. _Well, the Company shy me, Dwalin here, and Ori and Oin waiting at the bridge_. She would have thought all of them would have been waiting on the _other_ side of the bridge, to hold it against whatever Orcs came this way instead of Dale and the Elf and Dwarf armies. After all, there was plenty of time for the noncombatants to get across —

She stumbled as she realized ... _the bridge without railings_. Suddenly, everything made sense. From Dwalin’s sudden cursing in Khuzdul (she presumed, she thought some of the words sounded familiar), he’d made the same connection. From the cursing of the girls’ bodyguard in perfectly understandable Westron, he had as well.

“ _Won_ derful.” She grabbed the girls’ hands and pulled them to the side out of the way of the crowd, their bodyguard and brother along with Dwalin following.

A worried Sigrid looked around, and noticed the Company now formed into a line and still advancing toward the ridge. “What’s wrong? Where are they going?”

Sakura motioned toward the line of Men above Dale. “Thorin’s worried about leakers around the end of the line of your father’s men, and there’s going to be a bottleneck at the bridge.”

Sigrid paled, but nodded firmly. “Tilda, get across first and make sure no one wanders into the city. I’ll join the two Dwarves —” She pointed at Ori and Oin. “— and make sure there isn’t a rush to get across, or there’ll be people going into the river.”

“Good call,” Sakura agreed as Tilda hiked up her skirts and took off at a run. For all her complaining, Ingrid really was growing into her so far unofficial role of princess. But she hadn’t thought of everything. “Any old men that are armed, send to join the rest of us. We may need every warm body able to swing a sword we can get.”

“Me, too!” Bain shouted excitedly, inexpertly brandishing his spear and almost getting it entangle with the bow over his shoulder.

Sigrid’s already pale complexion went bone-white.

Sakura winced, but reluctantly nodded. “You too, and any others grown enough to carry a weapon. But when we get into line drop the spear and get out your bow. I hope you’re better with _that_.”

He blushed, but nodded. In a much quieter voice he muttered, “Father’s given me some training, said I’m good enough to go hunting with him once Sigrid’s a little older.”

“Bain ...” Sigrid started, then paused, at a loss for words.

Trumwulf spoke up. “I’ll keep an eye on him, as best I can.” The Man nodded toward the Company. “I’m supposed to be guarding you, after all, and that’s the best place to do it. Send my wife across with your baby brother, to help Tilda.”

“I will.” Sigrid abruptly threw her arms around Bain and hugged him hard enough to make him grunt. She whispered, “Be careful.” He hesitantly returned the hug and nodded against her hair, then she pushed him away and turned to hike up her own skirts and take off running. “Slow up, Slow up! Mothers and children first, enough older children to take each younger child’s hand! _Walk_ across!”

Trumwulf watched her run, smiling. “She’s going to be impressive when she finishes growing up.”

“No,” Sakura disagreed, “she’s impressive already. She’ll handle that, we have our own job to do. Let’s go.” She turned away to start jogging after the Company, her run quickly turning into short leaps.

/\

At the sense of someone beside him Thorin dropped his eyes from the ridgeline, and they widened at the sight of the tiny ruby-haired waif with sparkling lapis lazuli eyes that had slotted into place between him and Balin. Even covered in mithril chainmail and with a sword on her back under her quiver and bow (a bow she was drawing from its sheath and stringing), Sakura’s ethereal beauty had no place on a battlefield. He hissed, “I thought you were with the women and children.”

Sakura shrugged. “I’m _guarding_ the women and children. And where better to do that than here?”

Thorin struggled for a rebuttal, but was interrupted before he could speak.

“Give it up.” Dwalin stopped between his king and Gloin and yelled out, “Spread out! Make room for the rest!” Turning back to Thorin, he continued, “You know she isn’t going to hide Under the Mountain when innocents are in danger, and she and the rest might as well fight here as wait to be slaughtered with the women and children.”

“ ‘The rest’?” Thorin turned to look back and froze. “ _Please_ tell me you’re joking.”

“I know many of them are old,” Sakura quickly replied, talking so fast her words were almost running together, “but they at least have had some training and some have had real experience against Goblins from the mountains of Mirkwood raiding the farms. And I know how protective you Dwarves are of women but they’re already under threat and they don’t have children to take across so they might as well be doing something about it as just waiting and —”

“They’re _children!_ ”

Sakura fell silent at his shout for a long moment, before finally responding, her voice soft, and filled with pain. “I know.”

He looked down to find her expression grim, eyes dark with memories. She repeated, “I know. I don’t like it, either. But sometimes children is all you have.”

Thorin remembered the few stories she’d told of her own war, when she hadn’t been much older than some of the children coming to fight — and he knew what she’d told the Company was only the surface of the vein and far from the worst, and no one in the Company had even considered digging for more. Finally he nodded, then turned back around to watch the ridge line instead of the sacrifices approaching from behind. “You’re right. We’ll just have to do our best.”

/\

Tauriel peeked over the ridge again, and sighed with relief — the Orc horde had started up the other side of the ridge but wasn’t too close yet, the rest of the Men of Lake-town would have time to scramble into position. She and Legolas hadn’t been too late.

“Good, there they go.”

 _What?_ She twisted to look at Bard beside her to find him looking back the way they’d come. Following his gaze, she saw a few dozen Dwarves just coming into sight on the other side of Dale, marching along the broken-up road toward the Front Gate — crossbows and light axes. And Gandalf. _Why are they headed for the Gate instead of — ?_ She froze in horror, then turned back around and peeked over the ridge again, this time running her gaze along the length of the approaching horde, then the Men of Lake-town. The Orcs overlapped them — not by much, but a little. And ... she lifted her eyes to look past the front of the horde ... and there were Orcs that hadn’t even started yet, were being held back. When they realized that the Men were there —

She was scrambling back down the ridge before she could complete the thought.

From Bard’s other side, Captain Saewig hissed, “Tauriel, where are you going?”

“To the Front Gates,” she murmured, looking back without stopping. “I made a promise to watch over a pair of girls, and I can’t keep it from here.”

“What?”

Bard touched Captain Saewig’s shoulder. “The promise was to me. Worry about the Goblins coming at us, not her.”

“All right, but we’re going to miss her bow.”

She was halfway down the slope when she heard the Captain’s bellow, looked up to see the men springing to their feet, shouting war cries as their bows came up and arrows flashed down out of sight, heard the mind-piercing cries of Black Speech as the Orcs cried out in shock.

She turned back and tried to redouble her pace without tumbling head over heels.

/oOo\

“So they _were_ waiting for us.”

From the back of his massive white Warg, Atulg managed to keep a triumphant grin off his face as he watched the front of his horde approaching the crest of the ridge come apart under the storm of arrows raining down on them. He’d used the possibility of an ambush as an excuse _not_ to be at the head of his men making the climb — he’d been in enough fights (and had enough Companions backing him) that he could say things like that without having his courage questioned ... much — but having that excuse validated would make the rest of his modifications to the plan easier. With a little luck, he and his companions would be able to seize the Mountain and not fight at all. Then Bolg could go back to Moria and lick mushrooms.

 _So, how to do this? There’s no way that first wave is going to make it_ — Even as he thought it, the surviving Orcs at the front were scrambling back down the ridge, carrying those behind along with them — _so have the archers provide what covering fire they can for another rush to fix the Men in place, while the real thrust goes in on the left. And I’ll be on the_ far _left, where we can break for the Mountain while the rest of my boys take the tree-huggers and stone-herders in the ass like the blind man took the goat_.

Thoughts settled, he kicked his Warg into motion toward the growing chaos at the foot of the ridge, the rest of his companions spreading out and following. “All right, you puling cowards, turn yourselves right around or I’ll give you something to cry about! Archers, to me!”

The retreat hadn’t _quite_ turned into a rout so it took only a few lopped heads to get the mob turned back in the right direction, and soon headed back up the slope while those with bows happy for a reason to stay back and fire over their heads. They were firing uphill at Men in a single line, unlike those Men firing downhill with a mass of targets, but here and there an arrow went home and a Man would tumble forward with a cry or fall back out of sight. Still, however ineffective the Orc archers might be (some of the arrow fire actually falling short — Atulg suspected some archers were settling grudges), those arrows flying overhead were buoying his warriors spirits ... _this_ time they’d actually reach the crest, with the greatest mass on the left where the line ended.

 _Good enough_. Atulg yanked on his Warg’s reins and again booted it in the sides, kicking it into a full run around to the foot of the ridge on the left flank of his horde. Once there he stared up the slope and grimaced — there was no way the Wargs were going to manage that climb with riders on their backs, and charging _down_ the slope on the other side while mounted didn’t bear thinking about. Too bad, the shock of a Warg charge could break armies — slave Races found horse-sized, fanged carnivores unnerving. But needs must, and he called over some of the warriors waiting to begin the ascent to hold the reins of his men’s mounts. (Some of those warriors would inevitably become food for the peckish mounts, and served them right for lacking the courage to be in the forefront of the assault.)

Reins all handed over and his Companions spread out on each side of him, Atulg again looked up the slope and sighed, before beginning the climb. He was beginning to have doubts about whether his men would reach the Men, or be able to overwhelm them if they did ... that was a _steep_ ridge.

He pushed the thought aside to concentrate on the ascent as he began to huff. There was no changing the plan now, he’d just have to hope that the cast divining rods favored them.

/oOo\

“I should be _up_ there!”

Sakura fought to suppress a grin — at least this time Thorin had managed to keep his outrage down to a hiss instead of a roar. He had _not_ liked the modifications to the plan (such as it was) when Gandalf arrived with the Dwarvish reinforcements. There hadn’t been very many, but enough that they’d been able to form _two_ lines between the ridge and the refugees still filing across the bridge to the Front Gate, one line of the warriors and their crossbows, the other of those members of the Company that weren’t warriors along with most of the armed old men and children of the Men. (Including the Master of Lake-town, as it turned out — it may have been years, even decades, since he'd picked up a spear as part of the militia, but he still held his spear with more assurance than most of the young ones.) And — “If I have to be in the second line, so do you.”

“You shouldn’t be in _this_ line, you should be on the other side of the bridge guarding the Front Gate. The men I sent were not happy to go while you remained here.”

Sakura shrugged. “Yeah, well, a few experienced warriors need to be there along with the children we sent ... at least we had an excuse to get _some_ of them out of the line of fire.” She hefted her bow, arrow already nocked. “Besides, even as small as I am, I’ll be useful dealing with leakers. _You_ , on the other hand, are King Under the Mountain — if one of us should be on the other side of the bridge, it’s you. If you die, who’ll see to your people’s need, get them home from their exile? Fili? Kili? They’re in the front line and lack experience, they’re less likely to survive than _you_ are.”

Thorin winced as she spoke his own deep fear for his nephews, his gaze seeking out the pair bracketing the Elf that had joined them — Tauriel. He’d have wished he could keep them back and take their place, even if it was beside a blasted Elf! And Gandalf beside them! (Even as Thorin glared at him, the Wizard waved his staff and several Goblin arrows were knocked out of the sky — the odds of archers as poor as most Goblins actually hitting the two lines were poor, but those arrows were high enough that they might have plunged into the mob of women and children behind them.) But the situation was desperate and Thorin’s nephews had to gain the experience to go with their (admittedly excellent) training _some_ time. But while they made adequate representation of the House of Durin at the front and Sakura was ... mostly right about how important Thorin was to his people’s future (Dain would be accepted easily as King Under the Mountain if the last of the House of Durin fell, but could be ... parochial), Thorin could not bring himself to seek refuge in the Mountain while a battle raged on its doorstep. _And if I admit that, Sakura will simply reply that she feels the same_. So rather than try to come up with some feeble excuse she would easily see through, he simply fell silent as he kept watch on the crest of the ridge.

Sakura was doing the same. “Here they come,” she murmured as the first Goblin infantry appeared among the bowmen at the ridge’s crest, at the far right beyond the end of the line of Men.

/\

“Now! Swing now!”

Captain Saewig’s shout cut through the ringing of steel on steel, battle cries of the wave of Goblins hammering into the line of Men, and answering battle cries of the spear- and sword-armed Men facing them, the screams of the wounded and dying. Trusting the spearmen in front to keep the Goblins charging up the ridge away from him, Bard glanced along the back of the line even as he reached over his shoulder for another arrow — all the ones that he’d surreptitiously stabbed upright into the ground while lying flat waiting for the order to spring their trap, then replaced after the first wave was beaten back, were now gone. (He forced himself to ignore the fact that the bodies that were dropping with his arrows in them were human-shaped rather than deer ... his memories of what Goblin raiders out of the Mountains of Mirkwood had left of some farmers’ families — and of the Goblin corpses when his party caught some of them — helped, but now there were so many!)

Yes, Captain Saewig was at the end of the line guiding its swing, making sure it _stayed_ a swing like a door instead of becoming a rout straight down the ridge into Dale’s ruins, and a third of his men-at-arms were taking position at the hinge on the top of the ridge, the most experienced fighters holding where they could be hit from both sides of the angle. Now it was Bard’s turn to implement the plan Captain Saewig had come up with on the fly and had ordered passed down the line — and that Bard prayed to Tulkas the barely-blooded Lake-town militia would remember and follow.

 _So let’s find out if my prayer is answered_.

Bard fired the arrow he’d just nocked, then stepped back. “Group One follow me! Group One follow me!” Continuing his shout, he snatched up the extra quivers he’d brought with him and scrambled down the slope. He and (hopefully) half the bowmen needed to get to the end of the line now swinging down the ridge. Partly that was to keep Goblins from flanking the bottom of the new line, but mostly ... yes, already he could see a scattering of Goblins on the flat ground below the ridge, ignoring the Men to trot toward Dale’s broken walls. The Dwarves could (hopefully) handle a few stragglers charging into Dale and the rear of Dain’s lines, a flood was another matter.

He paused for a moment to nock an arrow, fire, another ... grinned as two of the leading Goblins stumbled and fell forward. Startled shouts arose from the other Goblins, and some turned to stare back up the slope. One of them stumbled and fell backward, another of Bard’s arrows in his chest, and the rest charged back toward the Men screaming bloody vengeance. Bard smiled grimly. _Good_. He waved forward the rest of the archers that had followed him and had hesitated when he stopped. He shouted, “Keep going! Get in position! I’ll join you when you’re there!”

They still hesitated for a moment, until one of Bard’s neighbors shouted, “Save some for us!” He resumed his own scramble down the ridge. “Come on, boys, we can’t all be as lethal as Bard the Bowman, not at this range. So let’s get closer!”

 _Bless you, Sabert!_ Bard continued firing over his men’s heads, Goblin after Goblin dropping or grabbing at arm or leg. He hoped Sabert survived the battle, afterward he was going to need men that could take the lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of this chapter was inspired by the scene in _The Two Towers_ when the old men and boys are arming for the defense of Helm's Deep. That scene, along with Theoden's question of "How did it come to this?" always bring a lump to my throat. Jackson made his share of mistakes with those movies (though not as many as with trilogy), but that was spot on.
> 
> And yes, the chapter title comes from the New Testament, referring to the likely result of trying to come up with new plans on the fly after getting caught with your pants down.


	38. Fight Song

Bolg howled as his Warg charged down the slope of Erebor’s western spur, straight at the broken walls of Dale. _Finally_ his turn had come to face the stone herders. His willingness to _plan_ instead of just throw his men at their prey had brought him to the head of the army of the Lidless Eye, but seeing a successful plan unroll was faint pleasure compared to the taste of blood and the stench of spilled intestines of his enemies.

All along the line howls answered back as the berserkers were _finally_ released against the enemy lines, and the savage grin splitting his face actually broadened — there was _some_ pleasure in a successful plan, and his people had managed the impossible. Normally, those touched by the Eye were ungovernable in their rage, tearing off their armor be howling like beasts as they charged the enemy. But war leaders didn’t typically try to govern them, those Orcs not so touched just getting out of their way and following behind them into battle.

Bolg, though, had decided to try something different. He had ordered that when the inevitable berserkers revealed themselves they were to be held back, appeased by having the weakest Orcs thrown to them to tear at and rend, until he began his own charge. He didn’t know (nor cared) how many of his Horde’s weaklings those berserkers had killed but it had _worked_ , and now all along the line they charged howling forward, cutting down all that couldn’t get out of their way, drenched red in the blood of the victims that had appeased them.

Then they vanished from his sight as his charging band reached the vale’s level ground, and he led the race toward the thin line of the stone herders in front of the city. He leaned forward his Warg’s surging backbone thudding against his breast, waiting ... his fist thudded down on the beast’s muzzle just as it was about to bury its teeth into the back of an Orc warrior struggling to force his way past the other Orcs between him and the lines of stone herders. Not that Bolg would have minded his mount taking down an Orc so weak he was at the back of the pack, but that would have broken the momentum of Bolg’s charge. Instead he buried his ankle spikes in his mount’s flanks and with a startled yelp it lunged forward into the mass of struggling warriors, bowling over the Orcs in front of it.

Then it was a stone herder in front of him, and his Warg pounced forward and snapped its jaws closed around the warrior’s head. The dwarf-steel helmet kept its teeth from driving home, but a shake of its head and mixed in with the cacophony of battle Bolg imagined he could hear the dry-stick snapping of the warrior’s neck before his mount hurled away the corpse and lunged for the next. Bolg’s swung shield knocked away an axe aimed at the Warg’s neck and he kicked the warrior in the chest, sending him staggering back into Worthag’s path. _That_ warrior had lost his helmet, and when Worthag’s Warg snapped its jaws shut his body fell away in a bright red spray of blood.

“Onward!” Bolg bellowed, waving his sword toward the broken city walls and urging his mount forward. They couldn’t get bogged down in the immediate line of battle, the key to victory lay in taking the city.

This time he didn’t need his ankle spikes, and his mount’s eager howl as it charged the last of the stone herders between them and Dale was echoed by the rest of his Companions, Orcs and Wargs alike, as they charged beside him. They hammered through the last defenders and charged the walls ... and their open gates. His charge had caught the stone herders so completely off guard they hadn’t even had time to turtle up!

Not that it would have helped them much if they had, all along the west side there were whole sections of wall that had collapsed to the point that even a mounted Warg could leap over, and those Warg Riders that were too far from the several gates to quickly funnel through and unwilling to take a place at the back of the pack were aiming for them. But Bolg thought they would be disappointed, the other side of those broken sections were likely to open into buildings, and doorways their mounts were too big for. They’d have to leave the Wargs behind and continue on foot. Still useful, but they’d lose all momentum.

No, the key to breaking through and taking the leaf eaters from behind, trapping both armies in a sack and crushing them like a nut between two rocks was speed, and ... Worthag managed to beat him to the nearest gate and charged through at a gallop but Bolg was right behind, and in front of them was a wide, straight road.

 _Yes!_ He charged down the street, waving his sword and still howling as he pulled even with Worthag (who had prudently slowed just enough to allow it — nasty things happened to Orcs that got ahead of Bolg when his blood was up.) Bolg doubted they’d be able to charge _all_ the way through Dale in a straight line, but ... the road went up over a slight hill, they bounded over the top, and Bolg’s eyes widened at the sight of the open square ahead of them. The plaza with a line of stone herders stretched across the other side with leveled crossbows.

There was no way to avoid what was coming, at the speed they were moving any attempt to turn hard for the other entrances to the square that had to be there would just spill him and the turn would just make him a better target anyway. So instead he leaned forward and tucked his head and one leg behind his shield as best he could.

He heard a shouted command in the stone herders’ weak gabble, and a split-second later he was staring at a quarrel’s barbed head where it had punched through his shield. But he only had a moment to gape at it before he felt his Warg’s body clamped between his legs spasm and collapse. Instantly yanking his legs up, he manage to tuck and roll across the worn and broken cobblestones just ahead of his dying mount. His head rang from the impact and his helmet went flying when its chin strap broke, but he ignored that along with the abrupt cacophony of screaming Orcs and Wargs behind him as he fought his way to his knees and tried to focus on the stone herders.

He was just in time to see the flash of sunlight off a stone herder’s magnificently gilded armor just before that warrior’s axe split his skull.

/\

Dain yanked his axe out of the massive, white Orc’s skull and spun in place to look over the battle, grinning fiercely at what he saw. The volley from his crossbowmen had brought the Orcs’ charge to a abrupt and tangled stop, and only a few of the warriors behind them had tripped when those crossbowmen had dropped flat so they could be leapt over to take advantage of the shock of the initial blow. With the head of the Orc charge stopped, all those funneling into the city behind it would break up and spread out along the cross streets and alleyways. In Dale, at least, the battle would degenerate into a chaotic tangle of ambushes and tiny battles scattered through the city, more like a battle underground with more passages. Any Orcs that managed to make it through would emerge in leaderless dribs and drabs. They’d be the tree huggers’ problem.

 _Just be glad Nuri’s messenger found you, or you would have still been in the front ranks when_ this _scum hit. And that he had the wit to order all the reserves into Dale_.

But best off all, the chaos that the battle in Dale had become meant that he no longer had any responsibilities of his own except what lay right in front of him, engaged in one of his favorite pastimes.

He hefted his shield, then leaped up onto the corpse of the Warg the white Orc had been riding. One quick thrust punched the spike on his axe blade into the back of the skull of an Orc grappling on the ground with one of his warriors, trying to to tear away the Dwarf’s shield. Dain dropped down beside his warrior, hammering aside another Orc with his shield, guarding the warrior until he’d regained his feet from the blood-slick pavement, then raised his axe above his head and shouted, “Come on, men, push them back, plug the entrance!”

A roar went up from those Dwarves that could hear him, and he stepped forward into the scrum.

/oOo\

Sakura drew her bow back to her ear ... held ... waited ... and her arrow took the Orc that had managed to get through the first line in the throat. Ignoring the gurgling sound that she _knew_ had to be her imagination (there was no way she should be able to hear that, not over the screaming-blacksmith cacophony of battle — not that that would stop it from showing up in her dreams), she watched as her victim dropped his spear and clutched at his throat, staggered toward her for a few steps, and collapsed. As soon as she was certain he wasn’t going to get up again and she wouldn’t need Sting, she reached over her shoulder for another arrow.

She was almost out. The first leakers around the Lake-towners’ line had been scattered handfuls and headed for Dale besides, especially after the Men had swung half their line to stretch down the side of the ridge, to avoid being attacked from behind. For a bit she had been worried that the Orcs would flood past Dale and take the _armies_ from behind, and the few survivors that made it to the Front Gate and noncombatants already there would starve while the combined Orc armies would besiege them in Erebor. She had badly underestimated how deadly Lake-town’s archers would turn out to be, but even then hadn’t known if it would be enough.

She still didn’t know, because even as Bard’s men had been desperately struggling to stem that tide a fresh mob of Orcs had poured over the ridge, and _that_ one had headed straight toward the Front Gate and its almost-equally-a-mob of defenders. Now there was a chaotic, desperate, struggling mass of trios, pairs, even single individuals of the Dwarves, younger Elders and older boys making up the first line all fighting to stem the tide with more and more leakers getting through as those defenders died in place. So far, the Dwarven crossbowmen plus Sakura, Bain (ghost-pale but doing well), Tauriel, Fili and Kili with their bows (the latter three having fallen back at Dwalin’s shouted order), had stopped all the leakers short of the second line. But ...

The entire center of the first line didn’t collapse, it _vanished_ as the last defenders there fell, and _these_ Orcs had a modicum of organization, ignoring the second line and its arrows and quarrels to swing left and right as a loud, fierce voice from their midst bellowed in Black Speech what she assumed were orders. Sakura’s hands flashed from quiver to string again and again, no longer trying to aim for throat or hand — even arrows bouncing off armor her bow (and she) didn’t have the strength to penetrate could act as a distraction. More Orc arrows wobbled overhead, no longer knocked out of the air by Gandalf, and she grimly did her best to ignore the screams as they found their mark in the mass of civilians behind her....

And then except for a few of the toughest and luckiest such as Dwalin and Gandalf back-to-back fighting desperately for their lives (and doing very well at it, Gandalf handling his staff and the sword Glamdring from the Troll hoard like a man a quarter of his apparent age), the first line was gone and the Orc tide rolled toward those civilians’ last defenders.

Sakura dropped her bow and snatched at Sting’s hilt, as Thorin beside her bellowed out some Dwarvish battle cry. He actually took a few steps forward before his common sense stopped him — charging the enemy when only some of your line would follow was a _spectacularly_ stupid thing to do — and Balin on one side and Sakura on the other followed. Then the charging Orcs hammered into them, and Sakura’s world dissolved into chaos.

And Sakura quickly learned that Dwalin and Thorin were right — a battlefield was no place for a Hobbit. The line held against the initial collision as desperate Dwarves, old men and boys fought to keep the Orcs away from the women and children, but she killed her first Orc when he _tripped_ over her, knocking her head over heels in the process. As he face-planted into the ground she managed to push his legs off her, roll up to her knees, and dive forward to thrust Sting up into his groin underneath his patchwork armor and then _yank_ to the side and out. From the blood that sprayed into her face, she’d gotten at least one artery. Frantically wiping her eyes clear, she looked around then dove to one side as another body, Dwarvish this time but from the articulated armor not one of _her_ Dwarves, landed atop of the Orc she’d killed. The Dwarf’s head flopped over toward her, his eyes focused and widening. “Run,” he whispered, before convulsing. More blood gouted out of his mouth and the light in his eyes went out.

Sakura scrambled to her feet and threw herself back into the fight.

She never would remember that battle as a coherent whole, not even in her occasional nightmares ... only a series of disjointed images: Bombur spinning in place with an axe in each hand, Orcs dropping around him or staggering away; the axe head stuck in Bifur’s head flying away along with a large chunk of his skull, when an Orc’s cleaver missed his head but caught the protrusion; the Master of Lake-town with spear in hand showing some fine combined spear/quarterstaff moves, however many years it might have been. The rest ... Dwarves and too-old or too-young Men she was later grateful that she didn’t recognize, one more unknown after another fighting, screaming, dying. She herself spent most of her time crouched almost on her knees, beneath notice for even the Orcs looking down to fight Dwarves, even with Sting glowing faintly blue from the Orcs’ presence. It meant practically crawling through the blood- and gore-soaked mud the battle was turning the bare soil into while constantly getting spattered with more, and keeping an eye out for stumbling, falling bodies and errant swings that wouldn’t care that she was in the way (one desperate Dwarf’s wild swing scored a cut along her arm deep enough for yet another scar and left her sleeve flapping) ... but Orcs had Achilles’ tendons just above their heels just like Men did.

Then one Orc did notice her, and her mithril chainmail was no help at all when a booted foot slamming into her side picked her up and hurled her away from her latest victim. She felt a rib snap, and gasped at the stabbing pain as she tried to roll to her feet. She’d managed to keep her grip on Sting in spite of the blood from her cut arm smeared on its hilt, but she didn’t think that was going to help much dealing with the snarling, _big_ , _cuirass armored_ , _chainmail-skirted_ , _shield-bearing_ Orc striding toward her. He wasn’t wearing a helmet but from the ease with which he was hefting a blade half again as long as she was tall, leaping at him would just get her cut in half. Maybe if she got under his guard first before leaping up for his throat —

The Orc’s head split in a splatter of gray and red, and she stumbled back to get out of the way as his body collapsed forward to reveal Balin with his axe embedded in the back of the Orc’s skull.

The elderly councilor was gasping like a bellows and his normally white beard dripped red, but he moved smoothly as he yanked his axe free. “I saw the kick. Are you all right, lass?”

She took a breath to answer him, only for that breath to hitch. She involuntarily raised her free hand to her side, gritting her teeth as another stab of pain shot through her from the rib.

“I see not. You’d best be getting yourself back, between the line and the families at least.” He whirled, and his axe thudded into the side of another Orc that had tried to rush him — not so well armored as the first, the axe parted hardened leather like water to sink deep and the Orc stumbled to the side and collapsed. “You’ve done well, but I don’t think you’ll last for long now if you stay.” When she hesitated, he added, “We all know you have enough courage for a body four times your size, but don’t be stupid.”

She finally nodded. “You’re right.”

“Of course —” He broke off to twist and shift, and a new Orc — unarmored this time — stumbled as his spear’s tip skittered across Balin’s angled shield then was knocked off his feet as the councilor stepped in and his axe split the Orc’s breastbone.

Sakura glanced around at the chaos surrounding her, then closed her eyes, shut out the cacophony, and pulled her Veil about her before slipping back away from the fighting.

Once out of the scrum she was surprised to find Tauriel, Fili and Kili there before her, along with a number of the Dwarvish crossbowmen, arrows and quarrels seeking out each Orc that broke through the last line ... not many, the sacrifice of the first line had blunted the Orcs’ charge. And from the corpses scattered on the bare ground, only a few more had tried to come around the west end of the line not anchored on the River Running where it issued out from under the Mountain — it seemed the Orcs had simply thrown themselves at the Mountain’s last defenders, rather than try to flank them as they had the Men on the ridge.

Beyond the Elf and handful of Dwarves, by some miracle Sigrid and Ori had kept the mob of women and children from panicking and rushing the bridge when Gandalf had become caught up in the fighting and the Orc arrows had begun to rain down (drizzle, really). Now the refugees were spread out to present less of a target as they awaited their turn to cross to safety. There were a few bodies lying about, mourning mothers and children crouched by them, a few wounded being helped by some of the Dwarves Thorin had ordered to guard the bridge itself, but nowhere near the slaughter Sakura had feared.

Wishing for her own discarded bow, she turned back to focus on the line. With her ... she felt along her chest and hissed at the stab of pain as bone grated on bone ... definitely a broken rib, she would be handicapped in any fight, but with her Veil drawn about her she would have a chance to get in a first, fatal strike against any Orc leaker coming close to her that the archers and crossbowmen didn’t deal with first.

And the number of leakers was growing, the last line was failing. _At least most of the women and children will get across first, and enough warriors to hold the bridge until the main battle’s won_.

Suddenly shouts sounded, guttural shouts of Orcs, deep and clear shouts of Dwarves, high shouts of too-young Men. Slowly as the shouts continued, the sounds of combat died away. Something was going on, and she couldn’t _see_ , the people in the lines were too close together, shifting around too much, she couldn’t see well enough between them to make out what was happening.

Taking a cautious breath, Sakua began to creep closer.

 

/\

Thorin gulped deep breaths of air as he braced himself on Orcrist (Elvish blade or not, he had been  _very_ happy when Legolas had gallantly if reluctantly returned to him) with the hollowed out oak limb he’d carved into his signature shield hanging limp at his side, and glanced around.

He didn’t like what he saw, there weren’t enough defenders left, they weren’t going to be able to hold. _We need time_.

Time the Goblins suddenly seemed willing to give them, as more bellowed commands in the ear-piercing Black Speech echoed up and down the line and the Goblins continued to disengage and pull back, the few that failed to hear the order or too heavily engaged to break free swarmed and cut down. Bellowed orders from his Dwarven veterans kept the defenders from following, orders quickly echoed by shouts from some of the boys (and a few girls) still alive.

One Goblin remained, directly across from him, wearing the finest armor Thorin had ever seen on a Goblin — obviously made specifically to his size rather than looted. That Goblin was leaning on his own sword, and glanced to either side before refocusing on Thorin. “Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain. Baby-king Under the Mountain.”

Thorin glared back. “You know who I am, but I don’t recognize _you_.”

“Atulg, war chief of the Gundabad Horde, and I challenge you to single combat.”

Thorin’s eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. “Really? Why? I’d think a knife in the back rather than a duel of champions is more the Goblin way.”

Atulg shrugged. “The Moria Horde has been getting above itself. Bolg seeks to rise further with the death of the Dwarf that killed his father. I will kill you myself and take the Mountain, and show that he is nothing.”

Thorin stared for a long moment, then shrugged in return. “I’ve killed many Goblins—” He raised his sword. “As has Orcrist. I will be happy to add you to both counts.” He hefted his oak-covered arm and stepped forward. _But not right away. Let’s draw this out, buy as much time as possible. And come to think of it_ ... Straightening, he waved at the bodies strewn across the ground, Goblin, Man and Dwarf. _But not Hobbit!_ (His heart had stopped when he had seen Sakura get kicked — he had been keeping half an eye on her all along as best he could, but Balin had managed to stay closer.) “If we’re going to have a proper duel, we need to clear the ground.”

/\

From where she knelt unnoticed beside Balin, thanks to the Veil and his laser focus on the duel, Sakura could feel blood creeping down her lip, taste it in her mouth from where she’d bitten lip and cheek. Thorin was playing a _very_ dangerous game, she’d seen a handful of moments where he could have at least maimed his opponent. Oh, she’d realized when he’d missed the third chance what he was up to — every minute the battle was put on hold while he dueled the Orc that _had_ to be in command of the attacking horde was that many more women and children safe within the Mountain. But that Orc was too good to be playing that kind of game with, several times already Thorin had only barely evaded his own crippling injuries.

And she didn’t trust that Orc to keep it a one-on-one duel, and Thorin had been slowly pressing him back.

She was just opening her mouth to shout a warning when she froze. Something ... something had changed. Something _important._ She glanced around but couldn’t see anything, but ... then she realized — it was the _background_ noise that had changed, the sound of the distant battle. She twisted to stare along the uneven line of Men and Dwarves she was in the middle of, and blanched at the sight of distant Orcs pouring through a hole in the line of Dwarves anchored on Dale. Those Orcs were already turning to left and right to take the edges of the Dwarf line on either side of the hole from the rear, and Dwarves they hadn’t reached yet were pulling away, falling back toward Dale or toward the Elves. The Men and most of the Dwarves could fall back to Dale and all the supplies stored there and _maybe_ the Elves and the Dwarves with them could break through the Orcs between them and safety down the Vale toward the lake, but —

 _How much of the food stored in Dale did the women and children bring with them?_ Her terrified suspicion was that the answer was nowhere near enough, not in the rush to get out of harm’s way.

A deep guttural shout yanked her attention back to the duel, and all thoughts of the larger battle fled as two more Orcs charged out of the horde watching the duel, one to each side of their chief. Beside her Balin shouted in horror and began to race forward, but there was no way he’d make it in time — not as close as the duelists had gotten to the Orc horde.

A single long bound had Sakura in front of the one on Thorin’s right. She landed in a roll that carried her back to her feet (and snatched her breath away as another sharp pain lanced through her, she _really_ hoped she hadn’t just shoved her broken rib into a lung) and ran toward the enemy screaming a battle cry that she never would remember, waving Sting above her head.

The chainmail-covered Orc laughed but stopped and crouched a bit to bring himself closer to her level and, oh God, he was hefting his sword and battle-scarred shield like he knew what he was doing, she was only going to get one shot at this....

And his sword was whipping toward her, much too fast for such a brute. She dropped, the blade ruffling her hair as it just _barely_ missed taking off the top of her head. His shield dropped, enough that she couldn’t get under it. _This had better work_. Taking a deep breath even as out of the corner of her eye she could see his sword beginning its backswing, she poured strength into her legs, arms, back, braced her feet against against the ground beneath her, and _thrust_.

The pain of bones in forearm and legs snapping and ripping through muscle and skin tore a shriek from her ... and Sting punched through the shield, through the chainmail behind it, and deep into his chest.

Her last sight as she hit the ground and the fresh pain smashed her under was the growing shadow of his corpse toppling toward her.

/\

Thorin had noticed the change in the distant sounds of battle, and paled at what his experienced ear told him of what it likely meant for the battle’s outcome, but kept his gaze fixed intently on Atulg. The Goblin Chieftain wasn’t as skilled — Thorin had been pushing him back — but he was close ... and a wily opponent. The ground may have been cleared of bodies, but it wasn’t a Dwarven city or even a cavern floor, and twice already the Goblin had managed to steer the duel onto ground that had Thorin stumbling. The second had nearly cost him his head.

But apparently Atulg wasn’t as concerned as Thorin. He stepped back out of Thorin’s immediate reach and glanced west towards Dale. “No more time,” he said with a sigh, and bellowed something in Black Speech.

Thorin’s eyes widened as two more Goblins charged out of the foul ranks behind Atulg ... ranks that were _much_ closer than he had realized. Thorin shifted so that his shield was set to block the one on his left, that Goblin would have to pass him to get a shot at his back. Thorin could spin to avoid that, but Atulg was coming at him again, locking hilt to hilt with Orcrist, the third Goblin was coming in on his right —

And a flash of ruby hair signaled Sakura’s arrival, landing in a roll, springing to her feet. Thorin’s heart leaped into his throat, and he barely noticed the leftmost Goblin’s blade skitter across his raised oak shield, barely noticed as Atulg disengaged, stepped back and swung, his sword hammering into Thorin’s side hard enough to knock him to the side a step. His attention was fixed on his friend, ducking under the Goblin’s swing then _thrusting_ forward — the heart in his throat stopped as her small sword punched through shield and into the Goblin behind it ... and her legs bent at the wrong places and angles and blood spurted as bone shards burst from her forearm. She dropped limply, and the Goblin she’d just killed toppled forward toward her.

Thorin sprang forward to straddle his Hobbit, knocking the falling corpse to thud down beside them. He twisted to take Atulg’s thrust along his oak-covered arm, Orcrist whirring around to hammer into the chieftain’s side hard enough to dent his armor, sending him stumbling aside. But out of the corner of his eye Thorin could see the third of his attackers was coming at him from behind with massive sword upraised, and — and staggered to the side as a spear-wielding too-young, too-small Man arrived, the force of his charge finding a gap in the Goblin’s piecemeal armor to thrust the spearhead deep into his gut.

The mortally wounded Goblin shrieked as he grabbed the spear’s shaft with one hand and twisted in place, tearing the weapon from the boy’s grasp. His sword whipped over and down to slice through the boy’s shoulder and deep into the thin chest an instant before an arrow sprouted from the Goblin’s neck. Staggering and dropping his blade, he clutched at his throat and fell back to convulse on the ground.

Thorin ignored the dying boy, whirling back around to find Atulg backing up slightly, sword at the ready ... and the Goblin looked up as shadows swept over them. His eyes widened, and he dropped flat as the swooping Giant Eagle’s claws snapped shut where he'd been. Thorin straightened and looked up, his eyes as wide as Atulg’s had been.

The sky was _full_ of Giant Eagles, soaring down, snatching up Goblins screaming and running in all directions — both those facing the women and children’s defenders and those attacking the main forces around Dale — carrying them high to drop screaming on those below them, raptor shrieks filling the air. The same Eagles as those that had rescued his Company on the slopes of the Misty Mountains, only ...

“I did’na think there were so many such Eagles in the world,” Balin said as he joined his king, gasping from his run. “Are you all right, laddie?”

The question snapped Thorin out of his shock at the sudden intervention, and he looked back toward the Goblin Chieftain only to find him vanished into the chaos. _Good._ “I’m fine, Sakura isn’t.” He dropped Orcrist and oak, and fell to his knees on the blood-soaked ground beside the still, tiny body. _She’s still bleeding_. He gasped in relief — corpses don’t bleed — and unsheathed his dagger to begin cutting at the leather of Sakura’s right sleeve, already flapping free. Unlike her he had no similar clothing over his own armor, and while the leather wouldn’t be very absorbent it would be better at applying pressure than his hands. “Find a spear, chop up the shaft for splints, she broke an arm and both legs punching her sword through shield and armor.”

“She — ah, yes, she did tell us boosting her strength could cost her dearly.”

Balin vanished, and Thorin carefully turned the Hobbit onto her back and did his best to staunch the blood oozing out around the bones sticking out of her arm. _But not spurting, praise Yavanna, no arteries are cut_. Of course if any had been she’d have already been dead.

“Here’s the splints.”

Balin dropped down next to them, several pieces of spear shafts in his hands. It looked like he’d cut them too long, but it wasn’t as if Sakura was going to be walking anytime soon.

Thorin looked at the pieces, looked at the wad of leather he was using to apply pressure, then nodded at the remnants of Sakura’s leathers. “Cut some strips. It’s ruined already.”

Balin nodded and drew his dagger, and the two soon had legs and arm set and splinted.

“How is she?”

Thorin turned at the question, shocked to find Tauriel sitting a few paces away, the ruins of the boy that had defend him lying in her lap. From the way her leathers, cheek and neck were coated red with blood that body had been clutched much higher. The blood staining her cheeks was cut by tear tracks.

After a few moments of staring he remembered her question. “She’ll have to be carried everywhere for a while, but if we can get her arm cleaned out well enough to avoid infection she should be fine.” His eyes fell to the body in her lap, and he frowned. As badly as the boy had been hacked his face was undamaged, and he looked familiar....

He sucked in his breath. “Is that Bain?”

“Yes.” Tauriel gently stroked the boy’s cheek, fresh tears rolling down her own. “If I had gotten my shot off a heartbeat faster ... What am I going to tell his father?”

Thorin winced, remembering the happy family that had put up the Company during its stay at the now-destroyed Lake-town, then steeled himself. “What will _we_ tell his father. He died saving my life, the least I can do is help tell his family.”

“But that will be later.” Balin laid his hand on Thorin’s shoulder, and gently shook it. “Thanks to the Eagles the battle’s won, but there’s work for you to do.” Thorin twisted, his gaze going to the unconscious Hobbit, back to Tauriel. Balin shook his head. “Go, see to it ... King Under the Mountain. I’ll see to them.”

Thorin finally looked around ... _all_ around. The battle was won. Dwarves were boiling out of Dale (and what had they been doing there?), hammering into the Goblins that had managed to break through the Elven and Dwarven lines, those Goblins trying to break for the northern ridge some of them had come over. Elves and more Dwarves were charging down the vale along the River Running in pursuit of the Goblins that hadn’t yet broken through and were probably running as fast as their legs could carry them ... which probably wouldn’t be fast enough, while keeping an eye on the sky for more Eagles stooping down on them. The Men on the ridge above Dale were standing in place (their archers wisely holding their fire to avoid hitting any Eagles), but the fleeing Goblins were avoiding them as they tried to scramble back up the ridge to the dubious safety of the other side. Thorin was grimly satisfied that not many would make it.

 _Balin is right, there is much to do. Find out who else in the Company as survived. We’ll need to search the battlefield for the wounded; move the supplies from Dale to Erebor, if Dain was fighting there it won’t be fit to live in — and with winter coming on the Lake-towners are better off in the Mountain, anyway. And some of the supplies will be needed for the victory celebration_.

After the Battle of Azanulzibar, in front of the Gates of Moria, the grief at the horrendous casualties had been so strong that the survivors by unspoken consensus had simply collected their dead and wounded and left. It hadn’t helped that the survivors were too few to risk entering Moria and dealing with Durin’s Bane, so the victory was ultimately for nothing. Now, though, the Dwarves at least would have something to celebrate — two Goblin armies beaten and Erebor reclaimed. And it looked like the Men’s casualties were light, their women and children safe. As for the Elves ...

His eyes fell on Tauriel ... the Elf maiden was again ignoring all around her as she held Bain’s body tightly against her chest, her cheek resting on the top of his limp head as she gently rocked in place.

 _I suppose I shall have to invite the Elves_.

Then he saw Gandalf striding across the battlefield toward him, Dwalin stumping along beside him. Dirty gray robes and Dwarven armor were liberally coated with blood and gore and the Wizard had lost his tall, pointed hat, but Glamdring in his right hand and his staff in his left were both steady and Dwalin’s axe was nonchalantly braced on his shoulder. Those two, at least, had come through relatively unscathed.

The fierce light of combat in the Wizard’s eyes faded into sadness as he took in Tauriel’s burden. But the first words were Dwalin’s: “How bad is Sakura?”

Balin answered: “A sliced and broken arm, two broken legs, possible broken rib.”

The Wizard winced. “I’ll seek out Radagast, he was with the Elves. Of all here his skill at healing is highest.”

Thorin nodded. “My thanks. Have them bring their wounded into the Mountain, better there than in a tent. And while you are at it —” He waved at the Eagles still circling, stooping, and rising again with their _very_ temporary burdens. Those Eagles were distant now, the only Goblins still close to the Front Gate dead or too badly wounded to flee ... or playing dead. “— thank the Eagles for us, for their aid today. I don’t know if you saw, but without them all would have been lost.” And in spite of the day’s grief, fears, and burdens, he smiled faintly when he added, “And you’re the only one I know that speaks Eagle.”

“Radagast is quite fluent, I assure you,” Gandalf replied, returning the smile, then turned and strode away toward the road to Dale and those that hadn’t joined the ongoing pursuit and slaughter. Among those left behind Thorin could see a figure in armor shining in the sun, mounted on an elk, and he assumed that Radagast wouldn’t be far from the King of the Woodland Realm.

Thorin watched him walk away for a few moments, before turning back to Dwalin. “Stay with them, until we can be sure there aren’t Goblins hiding among the dead.”

“I will.”

Thorin returned Dwalin’s nod, then turned away to hurry toward those women and children not yet across the bridge, and Oin and Sigrid. There was much to do to get ready for the wounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap ... except for the aftermath, getting Sakura back to the Shire, and an epilogue of course. I'm thinking three more chapters and this story's done.
> 
> And yes, Dain ends up dealing with Bolg instead of Thorin. I thought it was only fair, in the books Dain was actually the one to kill Bolg’s father Azog rather than Thorin so I thought I’d pass it down a generation.
> 
> The chapter title comes from the song by Rachel Platten, appropriate in multiples ways:
> 
> Like a small boat  
> On the ocean  
> Sending big waves  
> Into motion  
> Like how a single word  
> Can make a heart open  
> I might only have one match  
> But I can make an explosion
> 
> And all those things I didn't say  
> Wrecking balls inside my brain  
> I will scream them loud tonight  
> Can you hear my voice this time?
> 
> This is my fight song  
> Take back my life song  
> Prove I'm alright song  
> My power's turned on  
> Starting right now I'll be strong  
> I'll play my fight song  
> And I don't really care if nobody else believes  
> 'Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me


	39. She Will Be Loved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over a month and a half since my last chapter, but this time it isn't _just_ because of my busy life and various distractions — this is one of the longest chapters I've written, I think, almost three of my normal chapters in length. That said, I think that after I finish my two current stories I'm going to try to shift back to chapters of around 1,500 to 2,000 words, perhaps the shorter lengths (and so more rapid posts) will help motivate me to write more even when tired.

Hell is War.

Sakura ran, dodging around the stomping feet of the massive forms surrounding her: Orcs, Men, Dwarves — some she recognized (Bifur, Sharon, others), most she didn’t though each and every one was hauntingly familiar. Even those she did recognize were dressed in a mishmash of uniforms from her home and the armor of Dwarves and Orcs, wielding as great a mishmash of weapons. The skirling ring of steel blades meeting clashed with the staccato thunder of automatic weapons fire, though the screams of the injured were the same regardless of world of origin. Blood and gore rained down on her, the stench indescribable. That crimson rain flattened her hair, sticking her own camouflage-patterned uniform to the mithril chainmail underneath it, seeping through to her skin, flooding the ground and rising past her knees as the giants fought, killed, died ... fell. Sharon died again, the brunette’s back exploding outward in a shower of blood mixed with bits of bone and lung, and when her corpse hit the rising fluids below the resulting wave splashing over Sakura knocked her off her feet.

She struggled back up, spitting her mouth clear, then threw herself to the side as Bifur fell toward her with half his head missing. This time she went completely under, found herself swimming desperately for a surface she couldn’t find ...

... and was suddenly falling, twisting to get feet and hands under her, and landed on soft, green grass with a thump.

She slowly rolled over and sat up, looking around.

She was on the grassy hill just outside Hobbiton where her squad was buried, the fields of corn ready to harvest, wheat, alfalfa, gardens of cabbage, peas, carrots, patches of trees stretched out all around her. Dirt roads ran between the fields, and the air was fresh and clear with a pleasant hint of the scent of flowers she’d never asked the names of. A faint breeze pushed a few puffs of white through the sky and rustled the leaves of the patch of trees on the hill’s east side.

But this was obviously another dream — no graves.

“This is beautiful, I can see why you love it so.”

The voice was completely unexpected, there had been no one there a moment before. But that voice was soft, peaceful, as unthreatening as a voice could possibly be. So instead of diving to one side and snatching for Sting on her back, Sakura simply turned her head to find a Hobbit sitting beside her, the most beautiful Hobbit woman Sakura had ever seen ... or of any other race, for that matter. It was a beauty all the more amazing for that the details seemed to shift from moment to moment, Sakura unable to say what color the newcomer’s skin, eyes, hair might be as they seemed to somehow be all at once, even as they changed from one to another — and yet each new color and shade was what it had always been.

Sakura blushed at the thought of what she must look like next to _that_ , especially after where she’d just been. She looked down, hands frantically running down her sides as if she’d be able to wipe away the awful brew she’d been submerged in, only to find all evidence of what she’d just gone through had vanished without a trace. She was as fresh and clean as the world around her.

Gusting out a sigh of relief, she looked back up with an uncertain smile that turned into a blush as she remembered the newcomer had said something. _What was it ... oh, yes_. She turned to again look out over the landscape. “Yes, your people do good work.”

“ _My_ people? Who do you think I am?”

Twisting to again look at the newcomer, Sakura answered, “Yavanna, the patron of the Hobbits, the Vala that pulled me out of the ... the ‘vacuum’ that was killing me and turned me into one of your own … aren’t you?”

The other’s giggles were like tinkling cymbals, the sound sweeping through Sakura’s mind and washing away her growing embarrassment. She found herself smiling shyly back as the other shook her head. “You’re half right. Yes, I am the one that sensed your arrival in the Void and pulled you to safety. But no, I am not Yavanna, I am Nienna. Yavanna was kind enough to accept my suggestion that we transform you into one of the people she has adopted and place you there. The only place where you would have been more readily accepted was Imladris, and we could not have changed the nature of your soul so radically as to make you an Elf even if you would have wished it.”

Sakura thought frantically through the various Valar the Rangers had told her of, then her smile broadened as she remembered — ‘She Who Weeps’, the Vala associated with mourning, pity, hope, and endurance of spirit. _How appropriate_. She turned back to the view of the fields. “So, have I fulfilled the purpose you set for me when you rescued me from the Void?”

“There was no purpose, simply someone lost in the Void that I could help. Though I’ll not deny that when my student Olorin’s attention turned to Erebor and the Dragon I immediately thought of you. You were just what they needed, and it was time to stretch your wings again — as much as you had blossomed in the Shire, you were feeling useless, weren’t you? A burden?”

Sakura sighed and lay back, staring up at the sky. The clear blue of before now had more clouds dotting it, and a cloud bank was rolling in from the west. There would be showers soon, the kind of soul-cleansing rain she actually enjoyed being out in … for a time.

Her position also allowed her to watch the Vala out of the corner of her eye, until the sheer shining beauty forced her to look away again.

“A bit,” she finally responded. “My time with the Rangers helped, but the truth is that I wasn’t helping with anything they couldn’t do just fine without me. Who’s Olorin?”

“You know him better as Mithrandir, or maybe as Gandalf after your time with the Company.”

“ _Gandalf_ is your student? But he —” She broke off as she remembered the tale the Rangers had told her — that they had gotten from the Elves — of the arrival of the ship bearing the Wizards at Gray Haven, the port from which the Elves that had tired of Middled Earth sailed into the West ... some returning, some for the first time. “Huh, so Gandalf is an ‘angel’. I guess that makes sense.”

She fell silent again, allowing the peace that permeated her surroundings to soak into her soul. That natural peace was even greater than what she’d felt in the Shire, the product she now knew of the Hobbits’ affect on the land they’d called home for centuries, and she finally sighed. “So, am I dead? Is this ‘heaven’? It feels peaceful enough.”

Nienna broke off her own gazing across the landscape, laughing softly as she looked down at the Hobbit. “No, you are still among the living, though not for lack of effort on your part. You are currently lying on a pallet inside Erebor with a broken rib, two broken legs, a broken arm, and a number of people very worried about you. I won’t explain how incredibly reckless you were to end up in such a state, they will be happy to tell you themselves when you wake up ... at great length.”

She fell silent again, returning her gaze to the fields for a time, before gracefully rising to her feet with a sigh. “And I suppose it is time to allow them to express those concerns, I have enjoyed your company for long enough.” She offered her hand.

Sakura hesitantly accepted it and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. She opened her mouth ... closed it ... opened it again, hesitated ... realized that her gaze had fallen and she was staring at her feet — her Hobbit-sized feet, covered with red hair thick enough to almost be fur. She looked up to find Nienna patiently waiting, a gentle smile on her face. Sakura blurted out, “Can you send me home?”

Smile never wavering, Nienna asked, “Where is home?”

Sakura was opening her mouth for the obvious response, when she stopped. The answer wasn’t so obvious. The home she’d grown up in was almost certainly gone — in the west the US Army had been trading space for time and there was no way _her_ family would have left behind a building the invaders could use — but home wasn’t really a place, it was people. Her people had been scattered by the war effort, some dead, but ... it had been ten years. By now, even if the military brass hadn’t been blowing smoke to keep up morale and the US really had won, they’d all have long since given her up for dead, mourned her ... moved on. At least she hoped so. Here ... memories of Bilbo, holding the ring she now carried sewn into its pocket in his open palm as he offered it to her; Mistress Daisy, embracing her with a _very_ undignified squeal when Sakura showed that ring on her finger; little Lily waving goodbye as Sakura and Kili rode away, tears on her cheeks even though Sakura’s last story to the children in Hobbiton’s marketplace had been a happy one.

A sudden cool weight on her hand startled her from her thoughts, and she lifted her hand to find the ring on her finger.

“It seems you have chosen, and wisely.” Nienna took her hand to examine the ring, with the same gentle smile. “Home is where you are loved, and you are well loved here. So no, I cannot send you home, you will have to use your own two feet.” Then her smile turned mischievous. “But while I had no purpose for you when I brought you here other than to become well and happy, I can’t say the same about the Quest — and you have performed magnificently, beyond my expectation or even hope. For that, will you accept a healing? Except for your arm, I think, _my_ way of expressing my opinion of your recklessness.”

She paused, waited until a wide-eyed Sakura jerked a nod. “Thank you. And Sakura,” she continued, her mischievous smile vanishing, “when you wake up there is something I want you to remember ... this time you _won_.” Before Sakura could ask what that meant, the Vala reached up to place her hands on the Hobbit’s cheeks, leaned forward, and gently kissed her on the lips.

/\

Sakura’s eyes flew open to find herself staring at a ceiling barely visible in the dim light of several glowstones in their sconces on the stone walls. She sat bolt upright and hissed, curling forward as pain from her arm flashed through her.

“Sakura, be careful!” Small hands caught her and eased her back, and through the haze of pain Sakura reflected briefly on how standards can shift ... those ‘small’ hands belonged to Tilda, and they were larger than hers.

When she was again on her back and the pain had dulled to a constant throb she realized she wasn’t in the leathers she’d worn into battle, but instead was wearing ... some kind of dress, undoubtedly belonging to one of the Men children. “My rings! They were stitched into a pocket —”

“I got them when we cut your clothes off you.”

Sakura sighed with relief, and ran fingers through her hair ... clean. And — she lifted her unbroken arm, that had been covered in blood, sniffed — she didn’t stink. She looked up at the earth-haired girl now kneeling beside her. “Washing me must have been quite a chore, considering how ... banged up ...”  Her voice trailed off, worry stabbing through her at that young face’s blank, emotionless mask. “Did we win?”

“Yes.”

Sakura waited for a moment, but Tilda didn’t say any more. Sakura’s worry was now twisting in her gut, making her nauseous, as she began to understand the Vala’s last words. “Of my original thirteen Dwarves, how many are left?”

“Se-v-ven.” This time Tilda took a deep breath and continued with a voice tight with the effort to keep it steady. “Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, Kili, Bofur, Oin and Ori.”

_Fili’s dead? But_ how _? He was behind_ ... Sakura chopped off the thought, along with the memory of the time during her convalescence at Beorn’s home when Gloin had shown her the sketch of his young son he kept in a locket — she’d seen many examples of the weird crap that could happen in combat and she had to deal with Tilda right now. The deaths of _her_ Dwarves couldn’t be hitting Tilda so hard, except for perhaps the happy time in the kitchen with Bombur she’d barely known them. “What else happened?” Tilda scrunched down a little, face working, but when she didn’t respond Sakura repeated firmly, “Tilda, what else?”

“B-B-B-Bain ...”

_Oh, crap_. “Oh, Tilda, I’m so sorry.” Sakura spread her unbroken arm wide in silent invitation.

Tilda hesitated for a moment, then hurled herself down to bury her face in Sakura’s shoulder and wailed like a lost soul.

/\

Sigrid staggered down the hall, steadying herself with one fist holding a torch-shaped glowstone holder braced on the wall, the other hand clutching bedding to her chest.

She had thought that the day Smaug had destroyed Lake-town would forever be the worst day of her life, but this day had proven her wrong — finding herself, still in her teens, officially in charge of the women, children and elderly huddled in Dale as the men fought ... then leading those women, children and elderly to the Front Gate ... helping the Dwarves Thorin had ordered to manage the flow of refugees across the bridge to safety even as arrows began to fall on the crowd, randomly wounding and killing among those waiting their turn, as she waited for the Goblins to break through the last defenders and slaughter her — or worse — along with those that hadn’t made it to safety across the bridge (and _knowing_ she was going to die, because there was no way that everyone would make it to safety before those defenders finally failed and she refused to cross the bridge while anyone was left behind) ... Thorin telling her of her brother’s death when he found her to coordinate the post-battle mop-up after those _massive_ Eagles had come out of nowhere to save the day....

Through all that she had managed to hold it together, except for tears sliding down her cheeks that she simply ignored as she organized moving the wounded into Erebor and sending others back to Dale with Thorin with a list of supplies for the victorious men to bring _immediately_.

Then Tauriel, Dwalin and Balin had joined the refugees at the bridge carrying a terrifyingly wounded and filthy Sakura and her brother’s body ... and she had to escort them across the bridge to finally tell her little sister their brother was dead.

The way Tilda’s face had closed off, all hints of emotion vanishing from her face, had terrified Sigrid as much as anything else that horrible day. So had the calm quiet of Tilda’s voice when she demanded something _real_ to do — just like when their mother died, several years before.

It had taken Sigrid days then to realize just how bad off her sister was, lost as she was in her own grief, and weeks to truly break her out of it. At the time she’d sworn that she’d never just let her sister drift like that again but now she hadn’t had the time to break through her sister’s mask, so she’d asked her to help wash Sakura clean of the blood and worse coating her and find her some clean clothes, and to watch over the Hobbit until she woke up. Sigrid had never been more grateful for anything in her life so much as Tauriel’s instant offer to help Tilda with her tasks, and had returned to her own work with ... not a _lighter_ heart, but a grateful one.

She had even been able to continue on without seeking the embrace of her father’s arms, as she’d so desperately wanted. But that would have required her abandoning her post to return to Dale, with the death of Captain Saewig defending ‘the corner’ )whatever corner her father had meant by that in the note he’d sent her) he’d had to stay and lead the men that had fought above Dale in dealing with their own part of the battle’s aftermath.

So far as she knew, he didn’t even know that Bain was dead, yet. She’d wanted to tell him in person so she hadn’t included it in the note she’d sent, and she doubted anyone else had had the courage to tell him.

But now her day was _finally_ done ... enough supplies for everyone, at least for awhile, shifted from Dale to the Mountain; some of the underground city’s cisterns emptied, cleaned, and refilled with fresh (and breathtakingly cold) water; the wounded of all three allied races gathered up from the battlefields brought in and given their own quarters in the abandoned city; bedding distributed ... the sun was long down, and she could turn to personal concerns at last.

She’d even managed to convince Northraed, the woman that had appointed herself the young woman’s lieutenant, that she didn’t need help getting to her sister, and certainly didn’t need anyone else staying with them through the night. Trumwulf had been needed to help her father with and so wasn’t currently bodyguarding her and his wife had settled down for the night with little Randson, so for the first time that horrible day Sigrid was out of the public eye. And she desperately wanted to get away from all those eyes, the expectation that since she was Bard’s daughter she must have all the answers, and pretend for just awhile that she was back in the simpler time before the Dragon came.

If her sister’s mental state would let her.

As she pushed herself along the wall, a soft glow growing brighter from an intersecting corridor indicated someone else was approaching, and a few moments later Sigrid was surprised to see Tauriel step into view, still wearing the dress she’d been loaned by one of the women that had brought a change of clothing with her in the rush for the Front Gates. It hung baggy on her slim frame, but she’d needed to get out of her own leathers soaked with Bain’s blood. The Scout startled at seeing her. “Sigrid, what are you doing here?”

Sigrid hefted the bundle of bedding in her arm. “Everything that can be done before tomorrow has been, I need at least a few chimes’ sleep. How’s Tilda?”

Tauriel sighed, and stepped over to slip the hand not holding her own glowstone torch around Sigrid’s waist for support. “She was still the same when I left to find a toilet. Hopefully now that you’re here she’ll accept a shoulder to cry on.”

“Hopefully,” Sigrid agreed with a sigh as the pair made their way down the corridor. She had her doubts — the last time, she had had to forcibly pick Tilda up, plunk her down in her lap, and rock her for what seemed like half the day before her little sister finally broke down and cried herself to sleep. And her little sister wasn’t as little as she used to be.

Then they were stepping into the tiny room set aside for Sakura, and Sigrid almost overbalanced the pair when she abruptly stopped at the sight of Tilda, lying asleep beside Sakura, her head on the Hobbit’s shoulder and her cheeks streaked with tears.

“Oh, thank Nienna,” she breathed, relief flooding through her ... her little sister was going to be all right.

And with that relief, the last of her worry and responsibilities of the day gone, her own walls built around her grief to allow her to function collapsed. Fresh tears of relief and grief flowed down her cheeks as she fought to reduce her sobs to mere whimpers, until Tauriel gently took the bedding out of her hand and embraced her, pulling the too-young new princess’s head down against her shoulder.

Only Tauriel saw Sakura’s eyes crack open, before the Hobbit gave her a slight nod of approval and closed her eyes again.

/oOo\

Bard accepted the tankard of beer from one of the Dwarf warriors passing them out, then quirked an eyebrow at Sakura next to him, sitting on her perch head-high on a ladder braced against what little was left of the wall the Company had built across the Front Gate, when she accepted one as well. “That is a large mug for such a little body,” he suggested.

Sakura looked around at the crowd standing around the pillars lining the thoroughfare leading deep into the Mountain, lit by the afternoon sun — Men and Dwarves that had fought against the Goblins. (Which was why they were standing — any tables and benches pulled out of the depths of the Mountain would be Dwarf-sized, and Thorin had decided that if the Men would have to stand so would the Dwarves.) And one Elf, Thranduil having politely begged off and all of his people except Tauriel following his lead — and perhaps that was just as well, as ... stiff ... as Elves and Dwarves were in each others’ company. (And two Wizards, after hearing of what they’d done during the battle — knocking arrows out of the air, plants springing from the bare soil to entangle charging Goblins — Bard wasn’t sure they counted as Men.) And if some of the Men were young to be part of such a party — and even girls, some of those young ones — after the Battle at the Gate no one cared, not for this night.

 “Hah! You’ve never seen Hobbits drink, we can give Men a run for their money. Though perhaps not Dwarves,” Sakura added thoughtfully after a moment, “I guess we’ll see. What about Elves?” she asked Tauriel, as the Elf leaning against the wall on the other side of the ladder accepted her own mug.

“It depends on whether the Elf chooses to let it affect her,” Tauriel replied. “The ideal is to allow enough of an effect to lighten one’s mood, but not to the point of inebriation. But as you saw during your escape from our halls, not all Elves hold to the ideal.”

“True. But then, what race does? We’re individuals, not cookie cut-outs.”

Bard wondered briefly at yet another odd phrase, made intelligible only by context ... but only briefly. Most of his attention was on the Elf Scout. Unlike the other Elves, she had stayed with the Men over the two days since the battle. More specifically with his two daughters, though she stayed with Sigrid when the two sisters were separated ... leaving it to Sakura to be Tilda’s constant shadow.

Even when Bain’s body had slipped into the lake’s deeps as the surviving priest chanted a hymn to Nienna, Tauriel had been on the barge with one arm around Sigrid’s waist and the other across Tilda’s shoulders as his youngest daughter had clutched Sakura against her.

(Thanks to the number of fallen, few of the other Lake-town dead had or would receive the full rites accompanying ‘burial’ in the lake that had quickly evolved after Dale’s destruction, what with normal burials out thanks to the swampy nature of the western shore of the Long Lake and what limited harvesting of wood allowed by their Elvish trading partners’ sensibilities going to construction and cooking rather than cremation. But his people had insisted on the full rites for Bain and Captain Saewig, and both the Master of Lake-town and Thorin had argued that his people were right. Though in Thorin’s case Bard suspected the new king’s support for the idea was motivated more by guilt than hard-headed practicality — Thorin had already sworn eternal alliance with Bard and his descendants and had been respectfully standing beside him on the barge as Bain’s body had slipped into the water, however bizarre the rest of the Dwarves obviously found Lake-town custom. Not that Bard found any less bizarre the Dwarven custom of cremating the bodies and mixing the ashes with molten steel, paints, and such so they could continue to serve their people ... except for those few judged to have performed so great a service that no more could be asked and so were buried in heroes’ tombs. Like the burial of the fallen of Sakura’s Company, planned for the morning after the gathering ... _late_ morning.)

“So just what purpose does this serve?” Tauriel asked, motioning at the huge crowd almost completely served now.

Bard shrugged — he didn’t really see the point himself and had wanted to follow the example of Thranduil’s polite declining even against the Master of Lake-town’s advice, but Sakura had surprised him by agreeing with Master Godswith so he’d reluctantly accepted.

So it was Sakura that responded. “What will you do with the Elven dead?”

“Return them to the forest, each buried under his or her own tree, then gather and sing of their lives.”

“This is the same thing — the ‘sing of their lives’ bit, that is. Though I doubt many here can really sing, and it’s gonna be painful when they’ve drunk enough to try. But the main point is to trade stories of our dead, to remember them in life.”

Bard straightened from his slouch, and stared down at his tiny guest. “It really helps?”

“It really helps, I know. This isn’t my first ‘wake’, though the others weren’t this ... structured, just the survivors spending some downtime at a ... tavern, trading memories. At least it helps for soldiers, the boys and girls ... I don’t know. If nothing else, getting drunk will help take their minds off things.”

Sakura put down her tankard, freeing the hand of her unbroken arm to clasp the ring she wore around her neck. The one of the pair she’d apparently carried for months that she’d tried on after she and Tilda had woken up that morning proved too small for her finger. (She’d muttered something about gaining too much weight, to the amusement of what remained of her Company gathered around by then and the confusion of Tauriel and what remained of Bard’s family when they considered her almost cat-like slimness.) So a thin chain had been found in one of the homes and Thorin had removed enough links for it to fit the Hobbit’s smaller size.

Now she clutched at the ring as her gaze swept across the gathering, pausing from time to time. Following her gaze, Bard realized she was seeking out the surviving members of her Company. Then her search paused. “Good, Dwalin’s sticking with him, in spite of Balin’s suggestion that we spread out, let more of Dain’s warriors meet us ... them, really, Dain’s army couldn’t care less about me.”

Dwalin’s bald, tattooed head was easy to remember, so Bard had no trouble picking out _that_ Dwarf in the crowd, standing next to another of the Company ... Ori if he remembered correctly — the youngest of the Dwarves Bard had hosted another lifetime ago. Ori’s expression was scarily blank, and the hand that wasn’t holding a tankard was clutching something.

“Gloin’s broach.” At Bard’s questioning glance, Sakura explained: “That’s what Ori’s holding, Gloin’s broach. Gloin and both of Ori’s brothers all died together, and their families know each other ... that broach holds a sketch of Gloin’s little boy, Gimli, that he asked Ori to draw before they left on the Quest. Ori insists on returning it personally. Dwalin will keep him drinking, talking, maybe then he’ll be able to cry a little.”

She sighed, then smiled at him. “So after this gets started, before I head out to rejoin your daughters, why don’t we exchange a few stories — you tell me about Bain, and I’ll tell you about the family I left behind for the War, the friends I lost, before I arrived at the Shire.”

“I’ll join you when you go.” When Sakura and Bard looked over at Tauriel, the Scout continued, “It may be wise of my ... of Thranduil to avoid sharing a room with the King Under the Mountain and none of the other Elves could accept an invitation he turned down, but I am a Wanderer and so no longer under his authority, and I felt that at least one Elf should be here. But as I said, this is not our way to say farewell to our departed. I will sing for the lost later.”

“Fair enough,” Sakura conceded, “but offer Tilda and Sigrid the chance to listen when you do. It’ll help them, I think, both that you’re mourning Bain and the singing itself. What I heard, both at Imladris and in Thranduil’s halls, was incredible.”

At that moment Thorin bellowed a demand for attention, from where he was now standing on the single table beside several of the huge casks of beer Dain’s army had brought with it. Now, as everyone turned to look at him, he raised his own full tankard. “Hail the victorious dead!”

Bard’s own “Hail!” mingled with those of everyone else in the thoroughfare, all lifting their tankards in salute before drinking deep.

As he was lowering his tankard, another voice shouted out ... high-pitched, above him: “Hail those that died giving us a victory worth celebrating!” He twisted and looked up, to find Sakura standing even higher on the ladder where everyone could see her, holding up her own tankard.

It took a moment for the meaning of her unexpected words to sink in, and then Bard’s answering “Hail!” felt like it stripped his throat raw, but was still lost in the roar that seemed loud enough to shake the pillars they stood among — some of those voices as high-pitched as Sakura’s had been, many shaky with emotion.

That thundering response yanked Bard’s attention back around, and from across the thoroughfare Thorin looked straight at Bard, raising his tankard as his own bellow merged with the rest, then solemnly nodded. Bard returned the nod, raising his own tankard in tribute, feeling the knot that had clenched in his chest when Sigrid told him of Bain’s death and sat there since finally loosen. However short his son’s life may have been, he had made a difference that would not be forgotten so long as Thorin lived ... and Dwarves lived for a _long_ time.

“Well, that went even better than I’d hoped.” Sakura had dropped back down the ladder’s rungs to head-level with Bard and Tauriel, and took a deep gulp of her beer. “I just hope it helps.”

Bard found himself smiling wistfully. “You know, I think it really will. Now you said something about stories?”

Oh, yeah, you’re gonna love this one. It was a month after Sharon joined my team, and we’d just found out that Jared and Bill were coming on board —” And Sakura launched into an improbable tale involving a cart drawn by a runaway horse, a too-steep hill, a driver that hadn’t learned the layout of the town yet, and an open-air market.

/\

Tauriel had to admit that this time, maybe Sakura knew what she was talking about. Her first story had Bard almost doubled over with laughter and even Tauriel giggling into her beer, and her second — involving a tub of an odd-sounding food called jello, a bed, a girl that a man on her team named Shaun had had his eye on for months, and copious amounts of wine — was even more hilarious (if not one that she’d share with children). Bard had responded with his own stories of childhood mishaps involving his son, some where Bain was the instigator and others where he’d just been unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And Tauriel noticed that with the first cut made, Sakura’s next few stories were less humorous and more personal ... with Bard following the trail she had laid down. The smile on his lips now was from happy memories, not humor, and Tauriel could only salute the tiny Scout for her skill in bringing that smile to life.

Though Tauriel did notice something odd about Sakura’s stories ... they involved too many people. Other than Sharon, a fresh name would pop up for a story or two then vanish never to be heard again. The Wanderer had the sinking feeling that whatever war her tiny friend had been caught up in before making her way to the Shire had been more intense — more _brutal_ — than Tauriel could comprehend. _Though perhaps Thranduil can_ , she thought, remembering what her former king had told her of the Battle of Dagorlad — and the battles that led up to it — the day the Woodland army arrived.

But finally the shadows cast by the light of the sinking sun against the thoroughfare’s pillars stretched deep, vanishing into the gloom of the Mountain’s depths, and Tauriel reluctantly nudged her friend sitting on the ladder beside her. “Sakura, it’s getting late, and you have a promise to keep to the girls.”

Sakura looked around at the stretch of shadow from the piece of wall her ladder was propped up against, and sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Bard, but I have some bedtime stories to tell.” She hopped down from the ladder, completely steady in spite of the number of tankards of the Dwarves’ beer she’d drunk.

Bard looked around, at the Dwarves and Men talking, laughing, the drunken singing (as bad as Sakura had feared), a few people wrestling ... the bodies pulled against the walls of those that had drunk themselves into a stupor (mostly Men, especially the young ones). “I will join you. By now I don’t think anyone will miss me.”

Bard was right, hardly anyone noticed as the trio slipped through the crowd, and walked deeper into the Mountain. Balin noticed, but when Tauriel motioned toward Bard and mouthed ‘ _daughters_ ’ he simply nodded and returned his attention to the Master of Lake-town drunkenly waving the stump that was all that was left of one hand as he discoursed on the needs for rebuilding that burned-out husk of a town.

Then the sound of the raucous party was left behind them as they walked along the wide concourse softly lit by glowstones. The Lake-town refugees were several levels up, by a stairway several hundred paces in ... far enough in that no little ones might ‘accidentally’ wander out to the Front Gate — and the steep fall to the river pouring out of the Mountain — and high enough up to hopefully be away from the temptation of the heaps of gold in what had been the Throne Room.

When the trio reached the stairs, Bard stopped Tauriel with a gentle grip on her arm. “Sakura, go ahead without us. I’d like to speak to Tauriel privately for a few moments.”

The Hobbit glanced up at Bard, then cocked an eyebrow at Tauriel.

Tauriel glanced over at a now-serious Bard, then when he didn’t say anything more just shrugged. “Go ahead, let the girls know that their father and I will be up soon.”

Sakura gazed at the pair for a moment, shrugged, and turned to scamper up the stairs. (Tauriel noted that she seemed to have an easier time with Dwarf-sized steps than Elves and Men did.)

Bard watched her go, then took one of the glowstones from its wall-sconce and motioned toward one of the open doors a few paces away along the wall … a home, as it turned out, showing signs under the decades’ accumulation of dust of a hasty departure — furniture overturned, clothes scattered about, tools dropped. A child’s doll.

Bard’s face tightened as he read the same signs as Tauriel, but he led her deeper into the home without saying anything. Once they were far enough in that no one outside would be able to see the light of the dying glowstone, he placed it on a table and leaned against the wall.

“A few days ago Legolas mentioned that you’re a Wanderer, now. Of course, he then had to explain just what that meant — that you no longer owe allegiance to anyone, free to roam where your will takes you until you choose to again settle down. Is this true?”

Tauriel gazed at him for a long moment, then sat on the table he’d put the glowstone on. “Yes, it is. Why?”

He opened his mouth, hesitated, looked down at the glowstone. After a long moment, he quietly said, “I will be the king of Dale.”

Looking up again, he continued, “It isn’t a title I’ve ever truly wanted, not once I grew out of a young boy’s daydreams, whatever Master Godswith feared. But in the weeks since the burning of Lake-town I have become king already in all but name, and cannot leave it be now. Who else could take up the crown if I drop it?”

He paused, waiting until Tauriel finally nodded.

“And if I will be king, my daughters will become princesses. Are already becoming princesses in the people’s eyes ... Sigrid, at least. Tilda not so much, but she’s still young. She’ll have time to grow into it.”

He paused again, until Tauriel again nodded. _Where is he going with this? He can’t possibly be asking me for advice! What would a childless Elf Scout know about being a king or raising daughters of Men?_ Her mind raced, trying to guess where he was going, come up with some kind of response, only to stumble to a halt at his next words.

“Will you be my queen?”

For a long moment she stared at him, until finally managing to force one word through the stunned chaos of her thoughts. “What?”

“Will you be my queen? A mother to my daughters?”

“I ... but ... I ... me? Why _me?_ What do I know about being a queen, _or_ a mother?”

“You know just as much about being a queen as I know about being a king, if you accept we will both be leaning heavily on Master Godswith, at least to begin. And who else would I ask? The nearest kingdom is weeks away, and King Saethorne doesn’t have any daughters old enough to marry ... and I will _not_ steal from the cradle. And as for being a mother, you’ve been doing fine — you _and_ Sakura. But I can hardly ask her, ignoring how small she is she’s already engaged and will be leaving for home come spring. And she’s more like a big sister, anyway.”

“Well, yes, but I ... I ...” For one giggle-inducing moment Tauriel considered saying something about _her_ robbing the cradle, but pushed the thought away — however many centuries she might have on Bard, they were both adults. “I would be expected to bear an heir, and Elves and Men aren’t as fertile with each other.”

“They aren’t?” Bard asked, eyebrows rising. “ _We_ aren’t?”

“No,” Tauriel replied, shaking her head. “Elves are more fertile with Men than we are with each other, but nothing like Men are. I would be lucky to have one child before you die, two would be a miracle.”

Bard considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “If we have no children, Sigrid would do fine as a reining queen. She’s smart and Thorin would consider supporting her to be part of the debt he owes us, I think. Since the battle he’s already told me a couple times that I can ask whatever I please.” He sighed, rubbed at his face, then pushed himself away from the wall to stand straight. “But none of that really matters. My daughters are hurting and confused, adrift in a world where everything has suddenly turned strange. They need a rock they can cling to, as they shape themselves to their new positions, and I am male — there are aspects of their needs that I cannot help with. More than anything they need a mother. Will you do me — do _them_ — that honor?”

Tauriel stared at him, then rose from the table she was sitting on, turned away and stared at the wall. She noted the intricate patterns that covered it, and wondered what they signified. But that was a distant thought, a weak attempt to distract herself from the moment, and the Man waiting for her answer ... a Man she had come to admire, over the weeks, as she’d watched him struggle to do his best for his people in a role for which he had no training, only the advice of a Man he didn’t entirely trust. And how he had done his best to be there for his children as they fought the same struggle. _Even if he is as over-sexed as rumor has it Men are, he cuts a fine figure, rugged if not handsome. Meeting his needs for a few decades wouldn’t be a great burden_.... Her cheeks warmed slightly as she lost herself for a few moments in a daydream of what that would be like.

But that thought, too, was an attempted distraction, and equally weak. Her mind soon pulled away to two girls — hardly better than babies by Elven standards, but filled with their father’s strength. And their father’s pain.

Still staring at the wall, she started to speak. “On the day that King Thranduil arrived with the army, he spoke to me privately. He advised me to leave as soon as the battle was over, to protect my heart. He told me that Men are as mayflies, here and gone, leaving nothing but pain behind. He was speaking from his own experience, from the friendships he’d made with Men and Dwarves during the battles leading up to Dagorlad, and how quickly even the survivors vanished from his life.”

She turned to face Bard. “He was too late. Your daughters ... just thinking of leaving ... the pain of their deaths in just a handful of decades, it couldn’t be worse than how much it would hurt to leave now when they need me, knowing I’d never see them again.

“Yes, I will be your queen.”

/oOo\

_Weeks later, many leagues to the west:_

Atulg was able to keep from limping in spite of the deep slice in his leg covered with a bandage encrusted with dried blood, but it was hard and getting harder with every day’s travel from that disastrous battlefield.

But now was no time to be showing weakness. The attack of the Great Eagles just when he was on the brink of victory, the way he’d had to avoid being the Eagles’ special target by abandoning the armor enslaved Men had crafted for him (Men who had then gone into the stew pot, so they couldn’t craft similar armor for anyone else), the annihilation of most of the army he’d led to its death so far from Mount Gundabad, his own torn leg from being targeted even without his armor by one of the last Eagles to stoop on their scattered and fleeing prey before the surviving archers had gathered together and made the cost of further attacks too high, all had weakened his position as chief of the Gundabad Orcs. Only the fact that half of his personal war band had survived and remained loyal had kept him out of the stew pots like so many wounded that were serving as a walking larder for the other survivors.

And he _really_ wished that the Eagles hadn’t targeted the Wargs first along with the archers, if he’d still had his mount he and his companions would be back in Gundabad by now, shoring up his position before the other survivors trickled in from the disaster. The way he’d had to push the pace so his own band would be ahead of any other survivors hadn’t helped his wounded leg at all.

_At least I’m better off than Bolg. My men only had the Eagles after them, his had the Eagles_ and _the tree huggers chasing them down._ (The Dwarves wouldn’t have been a problem, once the Moria Orcs broke — the stone herders were a hardy folk, but were too short-legged to keep up with running Orcs.) _He’ll be lucky to get any of his men home at all. If_ he _does_.

Now _that_ thought had real possibilities.

He was barely aware of his surroundings, trying to ignore the burning pain in his leg by considering ways to convince the High Pass Orcs to turn their attention south toward the warrens of the Mountain Pass and Moria Orcs instead of north — fewer warriors left to oppose them, just what had been left behind when Bolg had marched for Dol Guldur, but with the Balrog for.a neighbor — so his most trusted surviving companion’s hiss caught him by surprise. Looking up, he gaped at the sight of a line of Men rising up out of the grass several dozen yards ahead of the remnant. They were dressed in the rough leathers and homespun of the Men that farmed the valleys of the Anduin river valley in the shadow of Mirkwood, still using that forest as a hunting ground in spite of the shadow the Lidless Eye cast over it. In the middle of the line were two other figures — slimmer, taller, and leathers that even at a distance were clearly of a higher quality that that of the other Men. At least Atulg _hoped_ they were Men and not the two dark-haired Elves that whispered tales had spoken of, that had hunted the Orcs of Gundabad for generation after generation like those Orcs hunted those of other races, until the pair had mysteriously vanished before he was born.

And every one of those Men ( _and Elves_ , his mind insisted on whispering, sending a shiver down his spine) was lifting a bow, arrows already nocked.

The sudden shock yanked Atulg out of the mental fog he’d sunk into, and his head whipped around toward Mirkwood to the south ... more Men were emerging from the trees, all holding bows, there was no safety to be found there. And useless to break north, even if some of his men managed to outrun the arrows of Men that hunted to survive and reached the Gray Mountains many leagues to the north, they’d just get bottled up in some mountain vale and hunted down by _trackers_ that hunted to survive.

No, it was a well-planned ambush ... except ... _They waited too long, let us get to close!_

He bellowed, “Charge! Take them down, don’t stop, keep going!”

His voice wavered in the middle, but others took up the cry and the tiny horde broke into a run. Atulg did his best to keep up, but found himself hobbling and so was quickly outpaced by the rest that had been in the front with him. Gudrut slowed down to keep pace with him, something that he found almost as shocking as the ambush — he could understand his companion’s continued loyalty to a point, Gudrut lacked the quick intelligence that needed to be combined with instant brutality to lead an Orc horde and so was dependent on Atulg to keep the high standing he had enjoyed, but now he was facing near-certain death in a likely equally futile attempt to keep Atulg alive. Atulg couldn’t understand it, but he wasn’t going to complain. Any chance of survival —

The Orcs that had raced ahead suddenly stopped, some so abruptly that they fell over — or were knocked over by those behind — and a roar echoed through the air, loud enough to seem to shake the ground. A moment later a massive bear thrust up from a dip in front of the Men where it had been hiding, bellowing its anger and hatred as it smashed into the pile of Orcs in front of it.

A very familiar Bear, one that Atulg had seen fight in the Pits for the entertainment of the warriors of the Gundabad Horde when he was only a crecheling.

A Bear that had made it his mission for decades to kill Orcs wherever he could find them.

Some Orcs desperately threw themselves at the Shapechanger, hoping that if they overwhelmed him with numbers they might get in a lucky strike. Others threw away their weapon and ran shrieking for the distant mountains to the north or back east along the path they’d just come. But those that threw themselves at the roaring Bear were thrown back with shattered bones and spilling entrails as massive clawed paws hammered into them while the ones that fled tumbled and fell as the arrows of the Men sought them out, what armor any were wearing useless against the Bear’s strength and the point blank range of the archers.

Atulg sighed and straightened ... the increased strain of the battle stance he’d instinctively assumed at the Bear’s appearance was sending streaks of pain shooting through his wounded leg, and it wasn’t like it would make a difference. But he might _just_ have time to satisfy his curiosity. “Gudrut, why are you still here?”

The reply came without hesitation. “Because you are my chief.”

_Because_ — Atulg twisted to stare at his companion. “I don’t understand.”

Gudrut grinned — an _actual_ grin, not grimacing or baring his teeth. “I know. Don’t worry about it.” He nodded toward the choppy screams. “Here he comes.”

Atulg turned to find the Bear only paces away and pounding toward them, and hefted his sword as his world filled with teeth and hot breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, Sakura’s headlong combat style. I’ve never served in the military, but as I understand it since WWII the Special Forces types have been trained to hit hard and fast, to steamroll their opponents without much regard for their own casualties because anything else means they’ll fail their mission and, not incidentally, _all_ die. The worst thing that can happen to Special Forces deep in enemy territory is to get bogged down in a battle of attrition, because there’s no way for them to win it. Which is all well and good, so long as the enemy you’re fighting isn’t twice your height and eight times your mass. The sheer shock of having a Chihuahua turn out to be a Doberman can only carry you so far....
> 
> So, two more chapters to wrap this up — one to get Sakura back home to the Shire, and an epilogue.
> 
> The chapter title comes from the song "She Will Be Loved" by Maroon 5. It isn't a perfect fit, but close enough. (I considered "Drink a Beer," sung by Luke Bryan, but decide that is an even poorer fit):
> 
> I don't mind spending every day  
> Out on your corner in the pouring rain  
> Look for the girl with the broken smile  
> Ask her if she wants to stay a while
> 
> And she will be loved  
> And she will be loved


	40. Homeward Bound

“Sakura, they’re here.”

Sakura looked up at the sound of Bard’s — _King_ Bard’s — voice, to find him and his queen standing a few paces away, at the edge of the half-circle of children gathered around where she was seated on the edge of the stage in Dale’s council room, between the hot Franklin stoves against the walls to each side (her own contribution, remembered from mountain cabins of her childhood, when the Dwarves and Men together started repairs on the palace).

Instantly, protests rose from the children: “No!” “You can’t leave yet!” “Just one more!”

Sakura jumped up onto the stage floor and raised her hands. “Come on, everyone, be fair! At least His Majesty waited until my last story was done, I can’t keep the rest of my company waiting at the gate. Now let me through, please.”

But the children didn’t budge, fresh protests rising, so she jumped down to shrug into her winter coat (courtesy of the Elves), grab her backpack, then leaped back up onto the stage and _leaped_ over the mob of children’s heads. Unfortunately, she’d miscalculated slightly and Tauriel huffed and staggered back when Sakura slammed into her chest. At least the once and future Scout wasn’t wearing the personal armor the Dwarves had forged for her for a wedding gift.

And now Bard was laughing, shaking his head ruefully as his daughters followed the mob of stampeding children running toward them.

Sakura ignored him and her own fiery blush as she made her goodbyes to the children, dispensing hug after hug — getting swept up off her feet by the older ones, tousling the hair of the ones so young (and short) she could get away with it without looking ridiculous. She was far from the only one with damp eyes when she and the royal family finally made it out of the temporary nursery and were on their way to the southern gate.

They walked along the street through the lanes where traffic had beaten down the snow in companionable silence — the others taking it slow so Sakura wouldn’t have to trot to keep up — until Bard commented, “When your statue goes up with the rest along the road between Dale and the Front Gates, they might as well carve ‘The Storyteller’ on the base instead of your name. That’s how all those children are going to remember you, as they grow up.”

They all laughed/chuckled/giggled, then Sakura replied, “Sounds good to me. I like that better than ‘The Burglar’ that all but my Dwarves use, or ‘The Ghost’ that I’ve heard some of the Woodland Elves call me. A _much_ better legacy.”

Tauriel said, “Your legacy could have been greater, if you hadn’t asked us to keep quiet about how you helped save Thorin ... or how serious your injuries had actually been. It isn’t every day that one of the Valar visits someone in a dream, and heals _most_ of their wounds.”

Sakura shrugged. “I don’t need the fame, and it would have taken attention away from Bain. The honor he’s received for helping save Thorin has helped bind Dwarves and Men together, and he deserves it more; all your dead at the Battle of the Gate do, they lacked my own training and experience and still threw themselves into the fight. Let him ... let _them_ ... have their due.”

Bard and Tauriel nodded without further protest — it was an argument they’d settled in Sakura’s favor months before, and after she left they could do as they would anyway — and fell silent for the last bit of the walk to the gate.

There they found Gandalf, Balin, Ori, Kili, and Oin, along with the several dozen Dwarven warriors acting as their escort. Ori, Kili, and Oin would eventually journey all the way to the Blue Mountains west of the Shire to deliver both the good news of the success of the Quest and the bad news of the fallen, but Balin would be stopping in Imladris to discuss with Elrond the migration of those Dwarves that wished to return to their original home ... and certain joint operations before that migration, and before the Orcs of the Misty Mountains decimated by what people were now calling the Battle of Five Armies recovered. And Gandalf intended to renew his acquaintance with Bilbo and make new friendships, put down fresh roots in the Shire.

The people she _didn’t_ expect to see was the new King Under the Mountain with Dwalin just behind him holding the lead rope of a donkey carrying bundles on its back and each side. “Thorin, Dwalin, I thought we said our goodbyes at the farewell party last night.”

(It had been quite a party, as emotional as the surprise Christmas party they’d thrown for her on the Winter Solstice — an especial surprise because Dwarves, living underground, didn’t usually celebrate it. The farewell party had had as many tears and gifts for her if less singing, at least on her part.)

Thorin smiled. His smiles came more easily, now, and a tension that had been so much a part of him Sakura hadn’t even noticed it had bled away as they'd whiled away the long winter months discussing plans for the future. _This_ smile, though, held more amusement than was usually his nature. “You didn’t stay for the entire party, and I wanted to bring you one more gift.”

Sakura grinned. “I’m surprised anyone noticed when I left, considering how much beer you’d consumed. Things were getting a little silly, and I couldn’t really join in the fun because I wanted to be up early enough to get down here in time for a couple stories before we left ... and be in a fit condition to do so.” She looked up at the sun’s position. “Actually, I’m impressed. I didn’t expect any of you until noon.”

“Hey, we’re hardy sons a’ —” Dwalin slapped the back of Kili’s head before he could finish the chorus fragment from one of the songs Sakura had taught them. “You promised Sakura, not in front of children.”

The Elf and Men that had accompanied Sakura to the gate turned to stare at her. She shrugged, blushing slightly. “Hey, I told you, however young, I _was_ a soldier for almost three years, and a grunt at that. We weren’t known for our high society manners when we partied. And I was drunk that night.” It had been the party to celebrate the arrival of what the Dwarves had claimed to be _real_ beer — apparently Dwarves thought that the most potent brews and military campaigns didn’t mix well, and considered it important enough to ship from the Iron Hills through the early winter snows to those Dwarves that had remained at Lonely Mountain when most of Dain's army went home; the brew’s potency had caught Sakura by surprise.

Her statement pulled a laugh out of Bard; after months of close exposure to the survivors of Captain Saewig’s mercenary band that had made themselves his royal guard he knew as well as Dwalin how right she was about soldiers. Sakura had a suspicion he’d be asking the Dwarves about that song later, when his wife and children weren’t around; certainly his bodyguard would. Another song to add to Dale and Erebor's collection, along with the translation of "Danny Boy" Thorin had asked for after she'd sung it at the tombs of the Company's fallen.

Refocusing on Thorin, Sakura said, “So, hardy enough to get up before noon after drinking _that_ stuff or not, you could have sent the gift with the ones leaving, what was so important you have to gift in person and that you couldn’t give me last night?”

“This.” Thorin nodded toward Dwalin and the mule. She suspiciously eyed the bundles it was bearing. “And what is ‘this’?”

“Treasure.”

“Treasure?” Sakura repeated. “But I gave my contracted share to Bard! And you already gave me the mithril mail that might be worth more than that fourteenth share, anyway.”

“Yes,” Thorin agreed, “and Bard will be getting everything we’ve stashed away for him until we can rebuild Dale’s treasury vault. As for the mail shirt, yes, it is a masterwork and will make a marvelous family heirloom. But I hope you’ll never need it once you arrive home — or your descendants for generations to come, for that matter — and you can’t barter it in the marketplace. There’s enough on this donkey for two Hobbits, or even an entire family of Hobbits, to live comfortably for decades. Certainly long enough for your children to grow up and make their own way.” When Sakura hesitated, he added, “It’s little enough for everything you’ve done for us. Please, will you just accept it?”

After a long moment Sakura nodded and offered her hand. “All right, I suppose I can be generous _just_ this once. But I’d better not be seeing a constant stream of donkeys as your people pass back and forth through Hobbiton!”

Thorin laughed as they clasped forearms. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard the _receiver_ of the gift labeled the generous one, but thank you. But there _will_ be visitors from time to time. We may have recovered our home, but the Blue Mountains have become home for many of us during our decades of exile and many of my people have married into the clans that were already living there. Even I may pass through the Shire on occasion.”

That Sakura doubted; as king, Thorin would be chained to his kingdom except for state visits to neighboring realms or leading armies ... certainly, he wouldn’t be leaving his kingdom for the year that the long road and the winter snows in the Misty Mountain passes would mandate. But she let it go, simply returning his grip as best she could.

A sniffle from behind her caught her attention, and she turned to find Tilda wiping her eyes and trying to keep her chin from quivering. “Do you _really_ have to go now? Can’t you wait just a little longer, until the snow melts?”

“Oh, Tilda.” Sakura stepped forward and pulled Tilda into a hug, resting her head on the young princess’s shoulder. “You know I can’t. The curse on Mirkwood’s lifted so I can take the Elven path through the forest and the enchantments keep it mostly snow-free, and I have a fiancé waiting for me who has to be desperately worried about me. I have to be on the Misty Mountains’ eastern slopes when the pass clears.”

Tilda whispered, “I know, it’s just ... I’m going to miss you so much.”

“I’m going to miss you, too; I wish you all could come with me, but you have your own lives to build here, and people to look after.”

Tilda’s embrace tightened. “I hate it! I want to go with you.”

“I know, _Little One_ ,” — as Sakura had hoped, the nickname that fit even more poorly now, compared to her own barely-more-than-three-feet (Tilda had gained a few inches over the winter), was worth a damp giggle — “but your sister and father might miss you.”

Sakura’s eyes met Tauriel’s over Tilda’s shoulder, and the Elf Queen nodded slightly.

After the initial emergencies of Lake-town’s destruction and the aftermath of the Battle of Five Armies had been dealt with and she’d been able to catch her breath, Sigrid had begun feeling her way into her new role as princess along with her father and new step-mother (the Master of Lake-town providing guidance on proper court etiquette, though Sakura suspected Dale’s court manners would remain rough for at least the first few generations).

But the youngest princess had obstinately insisted on having as little to do with those lessons as she could get away with. Instead she'd spent almost all of her time haunting Sakura’s footsteps, watching her spar with Dwarves and even Men, demanding lessons in knife fighting, soaking up the stories for the children like a sponge and asking for tales from her childhood (the Christmas celebration had been _her_ idea). She’d even begun braiding her hair like Sakura, though she wasn’t the only child to do so and had hastily _un_ braided the warrior’s braid hanging by one ear and made sure the other children did as well once Kili explained its significance to Dwarves. Sakura was worried about how Tilda would handle her absence and had asked Tauriel to pay extra-close attention to her younger step-daughter, but ...

_What will be will be, there’s nothing you can do about it from hundreds of miles away. Actually, there is one thing you_ can _do_. Sakura pulled back and gently wiped Tilda’s wet cheek with the palm of her hand. “Enough of the waterworks, give me a smile and promise to practice your writing. With all the traffic between the Blue Mountains and Erebor sending you letters won’t be a problem, and I’ll be expecting the same from you.”

Tilda nodded vigorously. “Yes, I’ll write every day!”

Sakura laughed. “There isn’t going to be _that_ much traffic, two or three letters a year is more practical. Besides, I’ve seen your writing.”

Tilda blushed. Her father had been taught his letters by his father and his father by his grandmother; he had insisted that his children learn them as well even if none of their playmates did. But Tilda had faced that pointless torture (in his children’s opinion, what with only owning a couple books) with more reluctance than even Bain and her handwriting reflected that. Now she stoutly promised, “I’ll practice every day!”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Sakura solemnly stated. "More importantly, _Tauriel_ will hold you to that." She pulled Tilda into one last hug. “Be happy, Little One,” she whispered, before reluctantly letting go. Quick hugs from Sigrid and Tauriel and a warrior’s clasp from Bard (getting swept off her feet each time, and with Bard on one knee ... blasted tiny Hobbits), a salute and smile for Thorin and Dwalin, and the small party left for the docks and the barge that would take them down the River Running to Long Lake and the once and future site of Lake-town, from where they would make their way up the Forest River past where the Company had first met Bard so many months ago to the Woodland Realm and the Elven road through Mirkwood.

As she strode along Sakura gripped a sewn-shut pocket holding a pair of rings, her thoughts turning to a somewhat portly, soft, gentle, openhearted Hobbit; a tiny munchkin that wouldn’t be so tiny by the time she got back; and a pair of hillsides — one with evening candlelight glowing in round windows, and one with seven graves.

As much as she would miss the friends she’d made on her mission and especially Tilda, she was looking forward to home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I'd start the smaller chapters once my current two active stories were finished, but I decided not to wait. Which means that this story's end will have some resemblance to the end of the third LotR movie, but it'll still be done faster. So at this point I'm thinking two more chapters, maybe three, to lay this story to rest. But it'll be done before the new year.
> 
> Excerpts of the song Sakura taught to the Dwarves (and possibly all there is, I don’t know if they based it on an actual song) can be found in S.M. Stirling and David Drake’s _The General_ series.
> 
> The chapter title comes from the song by Simon & Garfunkle. It isn’t a perfect fit, Sakura is leaving behind people she’ll miss as much as anyone she’s looking forward to, but it’s close.


	41. Home from the Forest

“Sakura, are you sure about this?” Gandalf frowned as he gazed at the rock face that was the concealed ‘back door’ into the caverns of the High Pass Goblins, the same entrance the Company and then Sakura had used to escape the summer before. “There’s always Balin’s suggestion, you know.”

Sakura shook her head as she also stared at the hidden door. “No, it’ll be at least a year before the campaign, and who knows how long that will take? Too long for my promise.” She grinned up at the Wizard. “Besides, I’m the Ghost, remember? I’ll be fine.”

“Then why did you suggest the rest of the party continue on to Imladris and wait for us there, and insist we wait long enough for them to get there before coming here?” Gandalf was frowning down at his diminutive companion, but in truth he wasn’t _that_ worried — this was the lass that had helped face down and kill a dragon, after all — and he was pleased to see her grin. While Sakura had never been really dour (though her temper was ... loud ... when aroused), since the battle she seemed to be at peace in a way that he hadn’t even realized she was missing. He had truly come to enjoy the sunshine she seemed to radiate now, over the long weeks of the journey through Mirkwood (though with the Shadow that had lain on that forest lifted since Galadriel drove the Enemy from Dol Guldur, it needed to be renamed ... or rather, resume its original name of Greenwood) and their short stay camped beside Beorn’s home waiting for the last of the snows to melt from the heights of the High Pass.

But Sakura was replying, so he shook off his moment of introspection. “Because as unlikely as any guards on the other side of that door might be, there’s no point in taking chances. You, Beorn,” — she nodded to their companion — “and I can deal with an alert Goblin horde, if only by running away. I don’t think I could say the same about our Dwarves. But you’re stalling, Gandalf, get on with it.”

Gandalf chuckled at just how _cute_ she looked glaring up at him from three (Man) feet of height (even more ridiculous than when she was glaring up at Thorin), but turned back to the door. He lifted and spread his arms, the crystal at the end of the staff that had replaced the one lost when he was captured by the Nazgul held in one hand starting to glow, and with a sonorous chant cast the simplest of his opening spells. Sure, he could that particular spell with a moment’s concentration and a flick of his finger, but people had expectations that he needed to fulfill if he wanted to be taken seriously.

Though now that he thought of it, he doubted Beorn cared and Sakura was probably one of the few that would be _more_ impressed with that flick of a finger, not less. From what he’d seen over the winter in Erebor, occasionally watching her practice her martial arts, she understood the effort that went into making the difficult look easy ... not that this door was difficult.

But any chance to show off by making the easy look easier would have to wait for another time, as the muffled sound of metal on stone came through the rock, and the door cracked open. Beorn caught it before it could swing closed again, and easily swung it wide ... no guards.

Sakura stared at the inky blackness and took a deep breath before looking up at her two companions again. “Right. If I’m not back by evening, _don’t_ come after me.”

Gandalf frowned down at her. “I am _not_ explaining to Balin how I lost you. So if you don’t want me coming in after you, you’ll have to come out.”

“ _Us_ coming in after you,” Beorn rumbled.

The Hobbit looked back and forth between the two of them for a moment, blinking as if something was in her eyes, then nodded. “Right,” she repeated, then turned and vanished into the tunnel.

Beorn waited until he was sure she was out of earshot, then rumbled as quietly as he could manage, “Should we follow her?”

Gandalf hesitated, but finally shook his head. “No, when the Elves of the Woodland Realm called her the Ghost it was because she’d earned it; her chances of success are much better without us than with us. However ...” He stepped into the tunnel. “Close the door. I can open it as easily from inside as outside, and we don’t want the sunlight to alert the Goblins that we’re here.”

Beorn snorted but, but shrugged. “Just be sure to fetch me if you decide to go looking for her.” He waited until Gandalf agreed, then did as he asked. With the door closed at first everything seemed to be pitch black, but Gandalf’s eyes soon adjusted to the soft glow of the fluorescent mosses that coated much of the surrounding rock. Once he was sure he could see well enough to move without tripping over anything, he found a spot in a nearby crack in the wall where he could sit and wait.

/oOo\

Sakura carefully scored a thin ‘<’ at ankle height in the moss of yet another opening (too low for any Orc to notice ... she hoped), before silently slipping into the tunnel. It felt like hours since she had entered the tunnel system, and she’d quickly learned that her months-old memory of the route from Smeagol’s lake to the Goblins’ back door wasn’t as good as she had hoped. Fortunately, she had been able to make her way back to where she saw Gandalf patiently waiting, then started over while marking her path. So far she’d found three dead ends; one tunnel that ended in an underground river; and two that had eventually angled upward sharply, too sharply to be the tunnels she needed. But she had kept at it and her current tunnel had been nicely angled downward, raising her hopes with each twist and turn the longer it went on.

And then the tunnel opened out and she found herself at the opening of a large cavern, with a familiar open shoreline (if somewhat hazily, she _had_ probably been concussed at the time). She listened intently ... nothing, beyond the echo of dripping water. “Finally!” she murmured as she knelt to score a final ‘ <’. Now she just needed to hope that Smeagol was home. _That_ didn’t seem promising; while he could move as silently as she, his tiny boat was pulled up on the beach rather than on his little island out on the lake.

Then she noticed the arm dangling over the boat’s side and broke into a run.

/\

Sakura sighed as she sat back on her heels. She had moved a pitifully light Smeagol out of his boat and done her best for the massive rip she’d found down one arm, rinsing away the pus oozing from the wound mixed with the dirt that the creature was coated with as if he’d been rolling in mud. But all she had was cold water from the lake and a few rags she’d started carrying with her so that in an emergency she wouldn’t have to cut up her leathers. Even if she’d had wood and a kettle, a fire to heat water would have been too dangerous.

And there wasn’t really any point to any of it, certainly no point in trying to drain the wound. Not with the blackened tissue all around the wound, the stench of rotting flesh, Smeagol’s labored breathing ... no, whatever had happened it was long enough back that the gangrene had gone systemic. Not even Beorn’s miracle herbal wash could help now, even if Smeagol could survive long enough for them to return to Beorn’s home. She was just grateful that Smeagol had remained unconscious through her pointless ministrations.

As she shifted Smeagol from the bare rock of the shore onto her cloak, his eyes fluttered open. He stared up at her for a long moment, then croaked, “Hobbits?”

“Yes, Smeagol, it’s Sakura,” she whispered back, and hastily unclasped her water bottle and dribbled water into his mouth to moisten it, then poured in more as quickly as he could drink without spilling it out the sides of his mouth. He must have grown so weak he couldn’t even scoop up water from the lake ... dying of thirst while floating in his boat, a boat he couldn’t even row back to his little island.

Her water bottle empty, she reclasped it to her belt. “Smeagol, what happened?”

Voice so soft she could barely hear him, Smeagol said, “We searches for the Precious. We searches and searches, we can’t find the Precious. Nasty Orcs find the Precious! We hunts Orcses for the Precious, over and over, we can’t finds the Precious! Then Orcses seeks us, hunts us ... traps us. We escapes, but ...” He shifted his torn arm and hissed.

“Oh, Smeagol, Gollum, I’m so sorry.” She dug into a pocket for the extra ring. Taking the hand of Smeagol’s uninjured arm, she placed the ring in his palm and curled his fingers around it. “Is this your Precious?”

Smeagol shifted his hand and lifted his head so he could see, and his eyes widened. “The Precious! Hobbits has my Precious?”

“Yes, I ...” Sakura reached up to pull the chain with Bilbo’s ring from underneath her leathers. “I have a Precious of my own. When I saw yours on the ground, I thought mine had fallen out of my pocket. I didn’t realize I had two until many many weeks later. I am so sorry.”

Still staring wide-eyed at his palm, Smeagol whispered, “Hobbits gives me the Precious?”

“Yes, of course, this is your Precious.”

“Our Precious ...” Smeagol smiled happily, closing his eyes as he closed his hand around the ring and let it drop to his weakly rising and falling chest.

Sakura fought to clear her throat, then whispered, “Why don’t I tell you about my mission?” She shifted so that Smeagol’s head rested on her knees then, hands holding his head steady by cupping his cheeks, began to speak. She told of almost dying from her wounds and healing at Beorn’s home, the long nightmare trek through Mirkwood, the fight with the Spiders and her haunting of the Woodland Realm (“the same way you haunt these tunnels”), facing the Dragon, and the Battle of Five Armies.

She would never know at what point in her tale his breath stopped.

Afterward, she laid his pitifully light corpse in his tiny boat. Drawing Sting from over her shoulder, she carefully stabbed several holes into its bottom ... hopefully enough to eventually sink it once she pushed it off, but not so soon that it would sink close to the shore for any wandering Orc to find.

Just as she was about to push the boat off into the lake, on impulse she knelt and pried open Smeagol’s hand to take the ring and slip it back in her pocket. “I’ll keep your Precious safe,” she murmured to the corpse, “in memory of the kindness you showed me.”

Wading waist-deep into the bitterly cold water of the lake, she pushed the boat away as hard as she could and watched as it drifted away until it vanished into the dark.

Her last task complete for the pitiful creature she’d barely known but that had saved her life by showing her the way out when she’d been stumbling about in the dark (in spite of his initial wish to find out how she tasted), she waded out of the lake and headed for the tunnel from which she’d entered. The closest fire was their campsite well away from the Orcs’ ‘back door’, and she was already shivering heavily from her half-bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So one more chapter to get Sakura home, and an epilogue to put this one to bed. For those that haven't been reading _The Raven_ , I've decided the two stories I'll be taking up after this is done are _Maneuvering for Position_ and _The Youxia Bond_.
> 
> The chapter title comes from Gordon Lightfoot's "Home from the Forest"; it can be found on Youtube. I believe I've used it in another story, but it certainly fits now. Yes, Smeagol/Gollum was hardly innocent, but he was still a weak-willed victim — Frodo's mercy out of pity for him might have been dangerously naive, but was based on truth (among other things).


	42. Show Me the River

Gandalf eyed his companion as she walked ahead of him up into the High Pass, then stumbled as his foot caught on a loose piece of stone. For a moment, he tottered on the edge of balance with nothing but the deep gulf beneath him, then one hand caught a small shrub with its roots sunk into cracks in the wall of rock on his left. _Right, pay attention to where we’re going, Sakura can take care of herself_.

Indeed, his Hobbit had whirled when he’d slipped, almost certainly ready to reprise her rescue of Bombur the year before ... only without Dwalin to catch them both. Now that he’d steadied himself, she asked, “Did you twist your ankle?”

Gandalf took a step, another, shook his head. “No, I’m fine. And wouldn’t that have been a poor way to end my time here, after all I’ve been through? You would never have been able to make it work for one of your stories.” Sakura smiled at his joke and turned back to continue their hike, and Gandalf suppressed a sigh. That quip had been worth at least a giggle, but she had been quiet since her excursion into the Orc tunnels. When she’d returned all she’d said was that she’d found Smeagol just before he died from wounds inflicted by Orcs, but there had to be more to it than that — it had been obvious that she’d been crying, and since then her grief had been too powerful for someone she’d only known a few hours. However gentle Sakura was at heart — too gentle, really, to be the soldier she had been — that was too much even for her.

_Focus, old fool, there’ll be time to worry about Sakura when you aren’t in danger of falling to your death through sheer carelessness_. Shaking away his worries, he refocused on the path ahead of him just in time to see Sakura disappear around a bend, and hear her exclamation: “Arwen? Is that you?”

The Wizard hurried around the bend to find Sakura swept off her feet, in the embrace of the Elf that had become her friend when she had nursed her back to health on their visit to Rivendell ... but a daughter dressed as he’d never seen her. Gone were the luxurious gowns, whether the silk of home or the leather and cotton of her rare journeys, replaced by garb of Rangers in the field, or the Scouts of the Woodland Realm. The raven-haired Elf was actually spinning in place, Sakura’s feet swinging out with the force of the turn. “Sakura, you made it!”

“Yes, I made it, put me down!”

Laughter sounded from behind the pair, from Arwen’s two brothers shaking their heads and grinning as their sister complied with the Hobbit’s demand.

Sakura stared up at her friend. “What are you doing here? And dressed like that?”

“When Balin told us you were sneaking back into that Orc-hole I was worried, so I came to join you. I was hoping to arrive before you went in, but _someone_ ” — she turned to glare at her brothers — “insisted on going slow. Oh, these are my brothers, Elladan and Elrohir.”

Elrohir shrugged. “The Storm Giants Balin told us you encountered are back in their seats so the pass is open again, but even as lightly as Elves can tread there are sections I don’t trust without ropes. There must have been some hair-raising moments for your Dwarves, ponies and all.”

Arwen shot her brother a look that practically shouted that she had her doubts about his professed concerns, but she just looked back down at Sakura with a smile and said, “Let’s get back down to Imladris and the baths, and we can catch up on what we each have been up to. And maybe some more songs?” she added hopefully.

Sakura laughed gaily, and Gandalf smiled as the pair decided not to wait, beginning to exchange stories as Arwen’s brothers turned around to take the lead back to Rivendell.

Sakura would be fine.

/oOo\

Sakura sighed with relief as the wooden walls of Bree came into view. Evening was coming on ... had already arrived, really, the lamp over the man-sized door beside the main gates already lit in the gathering gloom. Between a slight detour to pick up the buried treasure from the Troll hoard (that the Dwarves had insisted Sakura keep for herself) and a few days spent camped under trees rather than riding in some rain that had swept through, they had been a little longer on the road than expected and the so party of Dwarves (minus Balin, who had stayed behind in Rivendell for discussions with Elrond), Wizard, and Hobbit had been pushing hard all day to reach the last real remnant of the vanished kingdom of Arnor before nightfall and they had _barely_ won their race. The night here, one more night at Whitfurrows not far into the Shire from the Brandywine Bridge, and she would be home.

Getting through the main gates just before they closed for the night, the Company made its way through streets still drying out from Bree’s own rain to the inn where they’d stayed the previous year, they same inn where Gandalf had met Thorin and set everything into motion ... the Prancing Pony. It had a lantern of its own, set to illuminate the rearing pony of its name on its sign, so any latecomers might see it.

Sakura was _so_ looking forward to a hot bath, the heat and cleanliness and songs of the baths at Rivendell a distant memory. (Though the fresh supply of herbs she’d picked up there, kept in stock for the female Rangers, thankfully wasn’t — over her decade living in the Shire she’d forgotten what her period was like, until running out of her personal stash during the winter had reacquainted her.) Just cleaning the mud from between her toes and out of the thick red hair on her feet would be welcome. A change from the lembas that Oin had insisted on stuffing her with all through the past winter and during their journey home would be welcome as well, but that could wait.

Murgril, one of the Dwarf warriors that had guarded their journey, opened the door as several other warriors took the ponies around to the stable; and the party entered the light, warmth and rough cheer of the best (and only) inn between the Shire and Rivendell. Sakura headed for the bar to get a pint to take with her into the bath as Gandalf sought out the proprietor to arrange for bath and rooms.

“Mister Gandalf, sir, welcome back! You have a party waiting for you.”

Sakura whirled at Bardulf Butterbur’s statement, in time to see the innkeeper wave toward a corner of the common room that she couldn’t see thanks to the tables and Men in the way. She leaped up onto a nearby bench, and her eyes widened at the sight of Arwen grinning at her. The Elf was seated against the wall, next to her brothers ... and at a table close them were the rangers Sakura had joined so often on their patrols: Ivorwen, Eradon, Arahad and Ohtar; all looking as healthy as when she’d last seen them.

And at that same table, an even more familiar face in the last place she’d expected to see him.

“Bilbo!”

She slipped her backpack’s straps off her shoulders, along with her sheathed bow and quiver, then shouted at Kili to get his attention and tossed them to him. She didn’t bother to see if he caught them, and her leap carried her across the entire room, just skimming the ceiling (and almost hitting a dangling oil lamp). She landed in the middle of the Rangers’ table, feet spread wide to avoid their mugs and the platters of meat and vegetables, and lunged, knocking Bilbo off his box on the bench. The pair tumbled onto the floor, Sakura twisting to land underneath, her arms tight around her fiancé and her lips pressed against his.

After a moment, a laughing Eradon reached down to pull the pair to their feet. “Now, now, none of that here. Take it to Bilbo’s room.”

“Bath first,” Sakura asserted, grinning up at her friend. “I won’t ask what you’re doing here” — she glanced at Arwen for a moment and the Elf raised her pint in salute, eyes shining as much with sheer joy at Sakura’s happiness as mirth at a successful prank — “or what Bilbo is doing with you, I’m sure he can tell me all about it. But it’s good to see you all again, safe and healthy. Now, if you will excuse us ...” She grabbed a full mug off the table with one hand, Bilbo’s hand with the other, and pulled her unprotesting fiancé in the direction of the inn’s private baths.

/\

As Bilbo placed the folded leathers he’d been wearing on the bath’s shelf for its visitors’ clothes, Sakura ran her eyes across his revealed form ... lascivious eyes, yes, though they wouldn’t be doing anything about it until they’d retired to Bilbo’s room, but mostly impressed. The slightly plump Hobbit she’d left behind was gone, replaced by the sleek muscles and lack of fat of her warrior friends, both the Rangers and those buried in a hill outside Hobbiton. He must have spent more time with her Rangers than just the trip to meet her, and she was looking forward to hearing how _that_ happened.

Bilbo stacked his knife and sword on their accompanying harness on top of his leathers, then turned and blushed when he caught her staring. But his own gaze stayed steady, and he merely asked, “Aren’t you here for the bath?”

“Oh!” Sakura started at the comment and her fingers went to her own hooks and buttons, only to pause. The light here was the same flickering flames as her first time with Bilbo, the night before she’d left on the Quest, but much brighter than that candlelight had been and she found herself fighting the same shame she’d felt that first visit to the baths of Rivendell. Bilbo didn’t have the same flawless physique of the Elves she’d seen there, but ...

Bilbo wasn’t blushing, anymore. “What’s wrong?”

“Bilbo, I ... I have scars ...”

He tensed. “More? How bad, and from whom?”

“ _More?_ ” Sakura gaped. “How do you know —”

Now Bilbo relaxed, sighing in relief. “You _do_ remember who helped nurse you back to health when you first arrived? Mistress Bunce showed me what scars she could without violating your modesty, and  gave such causes as she could — she felt I needed to know what kind of person I was guesting. I didn’t care.”

“Oh.” Sakura’s eyes went misty and she smiled, her fingers resuming their work on hooks and buttons. “Well, I do have a _few_ new ones, I’ll tell you the stories behind them once you tell me what you’re doing here looking like _that_.” She tried to turn her smile lascivious again as Bilbo’s cheeks reheated (though she suspected she’d only managed ‘soft’), and hastily pealed out of her own leathers leaving her wearing only her wedding ring on its chain around her neck. If she’d managed ‘lascivious’ before it was a lost cause now, as her heart warmed at the way Bilbo’s eyes lit up when he saw the ring. But she just said, “Now let’s get clean, so we can go to your room and get sweaty all over again.”

/oOo\

Sakura choked up as her arms tightened around Ori. Their public embrace wasn’t really proper for Dwarves — the clasped forearms she’d just shared with Oin and Kili more appropriate — but she didn’t care. The youngest of the Dwarves, scribe and artist, had been the baby of the Company (besides her, anyway), he had just given her one of the finest gifts she’d ever received, and she was going to thank him properly!

“It’s magnificent!” she managed to whisper in his ear, then pulled back to again look at the sketch he had given her. She’d known he was creating sketches of each of the Company lost in the battle for their families — she’d suggested to Tauriel that he could use a special leather case for storing them when she’d seen the quality of his work — but she hadn’t realized he was doing one of her. Several, actually, smaller than the others so they could fit on the single sheet, and the moments he’d chosen ... her finger trembled as it traced around the image of her wearing the mithril mail she’d been given, seated on top of the wall the Company had built across the Front Gates, Sting’s hilt peaking over her shoulder, Thorin in his own armor leaning on the rampart beside her; then around the image of her sitting on the edge of stage in Dale’s council room, Sigrid sitting beside her with an arm across her shoulders, Tilda snuggled against her on her other side with Sakura’s own arm around her waist pulling her close, children sitting on the floor in front of the trio listening raptly to one of her stories. Neither had really happened as he’d portrayed, but the spirit behind both ...

She looked up with watery eyes. “Thank you,” she managed to say with a shaky voice, “I’m going to miss you.” Her gaze swept across the Oin and Kili. “All of you. When you pass through on your way back to Lonely Mountain, come visit. Hobbiton isn’t _that_ far out of your way.”

The other two nodded their agreement, their own eyes suspiciously bright. Then one last round of farewells over, and the pack of Dwarves continued on their way on the East Road to the White Downs and the Blue Mountains beyond.

Sakura watched as they shrank with distance until they vanished around a bend in the road around a hill, took a deep breath, and smiled at Bilbo waiting patiently with the two ponies with their treasure (dressed in his usual fine homespun, having changed out of his leathers before they left Bree). “Let’s go.”

The pair took the road leading north away from the East Road, Sakura’s head swiveling as they walked, taking in the familiar sights of farm and rolling wooded hills they passed through on their way — past the Bywater Pool, alongside the Water that fed through the lake, past the hill with her dead (she would have to visit them tomorrow), until Hobbiton came into view with the Hill and Bag End beyond it.

When the pair reached the marketplace Sakura paused for a moment, ignoring the looks she was getting from the Hobbits already there. (And a mixed lot they were, frowns and smiles, weak and strong, both.) “Bilbo, go on ahead and buy our dinner, and head home if I haven’t caught up before you’re done. I have one last stop first.”

Bilbo looked curiously at her for a moment, before realization dawned. “Of course.” He took the lead rope for her own pony, and as he headed into the marketplace she took a cobblestoned road toward the west edge of Hobbiton and a particular small house that was perhaps the true center of power of the town.

A few minutes’ walk, and she knocked on the round door. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Sakura smiled at Lily’s shout, followed by the sound of running feet and the clack of the latch being pushed up. The door creaked open, and the child’s eyes widened at finding Sakura on the doorstep. She whirled to race back into the house, yelling, “Grandmama! It’s Sakura!” A moment later, the child was back, knocking Sakura back a step when she flung herself into Sakura’s arms. She looked just the same ... even wearing the same dress, though it was a bit threadbare and stained, and not quite as well-fitted — tighter and the hem higher up her legs — as the summer before.

A few moments later Mistress Greenhand ... Daisy ... appeared in the hallway, the Matron of Hobbiton shaking her head and smiling ruefully at the sight of Sakura’s armful of happily babbling child. She was perhaps a bit more stoop-shouldered, but otherwise unchanged. “Lily’s been insisting on wearing that dress and haunting the front door since spring started. It’s been all we could do to get her to play, much less do her chores.” The smile died as Daisy’s gaze searched Sakura’s face. Whatever she was looking for, she must have found it as her smile returned. “Your mission is done?”

Sakura laughed and swung Lily around for a moment before returning Daisy’s smile. “Yes, and _well_ done.

“I’m home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, one more chapter in, and just the epilogue to go to show what butterfly effects Sakura has had on _this_ side of the Misty Mountains. With Thanksgiving this week it'll probably be a bit late, though, so don't be surprised if there's nothing next weekend. Speaking of the holiday, to all my readers in the US out there, have a wonderful and especially safe Happy Thanksgiving!  
>  I've long been thinking about which song to use for this chapter's title. I considered "Bonny Bonny" by Cara Dillon, "Feels Like Home" by Bryan Adams and Diana Krall, and "Home" by Blake Shelton, but in the end decided to go with "Show Me the River" by Eastmountainsouth (I _really_ wish that duo had lasted longer than one album).
> 
> I've been a traveler of far away lands  
> I've got love on my mind, but death on these hands  
> Come homeward angel, show me the way  
> Or will fate leave me dead in the tracks where I lay
> 
> _Chorus:_  
>  Show me the river that leads to my home  
> Back to the one that I love  
> Show me the wind that constantly blows  
> And I will fly away, fly away home
> 
> Since we were parted I know I have changed  
> You'll see the blood that was shed in the lines on my face  
> But now that I've turned my back on the fight  
> I'm gonna steal back my life like a thief in the night
> 
> _Chorus_
> 
> I come to you through fire and snow  
> Over high rolling hills and the valleys below  
> With all that I've suffered I'm still on this road  
> And if I hold you again will never let go.
> 
> _Chorus_


	43. The Last Goodbye

_Six years later, TA 2948:_

Sakura stood bareheaded, her shoulder-length hair streaming behind her in the early spring breeze, clutching her ashwood staff as Otha Horsfall, the representative of young women between maiden and mother, lifted her voice in the tweens’ song. The lyrics were in no language Sakura had ever heard, that since their adoption of Westron Hobbits only heard now during religious ceremonies, though their meaning was still remembered. Mistress Greenhand had finally had her way, Sakura was involved in a community religious ceremony. Sakura and Bilbo’s marriage four months earlier didn’t count, that had simply been an exchange of final vows before a few friends and anyway really just acknowledged that they were ready to start a family. (The actual ‘marriage’ had been when she’d accepted Bilbo’s proposal.) For _this_ it seemed all of Hobbiton had turned out in spite of the chill.

Sakura just wished it hadn’t been for Mistress Greenhand’s — Daisy’s — funeral.

Then Otha’s song rose to its crescendo, then fell silent as she knelt and gently laid the aspen staff in her hands gently on top of Daisy’s bare body alongside the small applewood staff that Lily had already placed there after singing her part.

Otha stepped back, and it was Sakura’s turn. One hand smoothed the thin shift the breeze was plastering against her protruding stomach — perhaps a bit more than a baby bump now — and she stepped forward, her vision going misty as she lifted her own voice in the song she had spent the past three days practicing, the song of the mother. Her voice shook from time to time, as especially poignant moments in the lyrics came, but that was normal, even desired. (Though she suspected there would still be muttered complaints, from some of those that didn’t like her anyway.)

Then her song was done, she’d placed her ashwood staff alongside the other two, and she rose to her feet (with Bilbo’s help, not that she needed it this early in her pregnancy) and stepped back. There would be another song from Mistress Rose Sackville for Daisy’s time as an elder with a staff carved from beech joining the others, a final song and birch staff from Mistress Pervinca Catermole, the new Matron of Hobbiton, then the men, including Bilbo, would fill in the grave and the ceremony would be complete. The family would be having a post-funeral meal together, but she hadn’t been invited. (For which she was grateful. Her relationship with Lily’s mother had been strained, over the past several years.)

Sakura felt guilty that she would be glad to get out of the cool breeze and into warmer clothing, and that in spite of her grief she was happy to be attending a funeral of someone that had died of something besides war.

/oOo\

“Really, Bilbo, I’m _fine_. Even if I was in my ninth month, a simple walk up the Hill wouldn’t be too much. Really, if you’re this bad right now, what are you going to be like when we leave on the ponies?”

“At least on your pony you wouldn’t be using your own feet,” Bilbo grumbled. He was keeping a close eye on his wife but had to admit, if only silently to himself, that she was handling the walk back to Bag End easily enough.

His eyes tracked up the path they’d be taking as they turned the bend to their front door, and he stiffened at the sight of three _horses_ grazing in the yard next to the bench where he’d smoked many a pipe. “Love, we have visitors.”

Sakura looked up at his warning, and her eyes widened. “Those are _magnificent_ horses,” she breathed, and her walk turned into a stride.

A minute later the pair were approaching their front gate, and Sakura grinned ... not only were the horses magnificent, but she thought she’d recognized one of them. She pushed the gate open and stepped through, then paused for a moment as a mare ambled over and dipped her head to snuffle at Sakura’s hair. Sakura reached up to rub the horse’s forehead between her eyes and down along her muzzle. “Well, hello, Farstrider, what are you doing here? Sorry, but you’ll have to wait for your apple until I can fetch it from inside.”

The mare’s _whuff_ of breath stirred Sakura’s hair, and the Hobbit continued to rub for a few moments more before turning toward the door. Bilbo had it already open and she strode through, calling out, “Arwen! What are you _doing_ here? I didn’t expect to see you until your next visit to Fornost. And where are your brothers? Who else is with you?”

The raven-haired Elf maiden popped out of what had been Bag End’s main room, with its massive fireplace ... the fire there currently lit, Sakura could tell from the unexpected warmth in the burrow. “My brothers are currently hunting Orcs in the upper Anduin Vale with Beornings. I was headed to Fornost to visit when I met Aragorn on his way here. Why aren’t _you_ in Fornost? I thought you intended to be there in time for the first plantings.”

Sakura leaped into Arwen’s arms for a quick hug (the Elf so accustomed to them by now that she didn’t even stagger, already braced for the impact). “Estel’s with you? Why?” She grinned at the young man dressed in leathers over Arwen’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry, that should be Aragorn now. Or do you prefer ‘His Majesty’ yet?”

The seventeen-year-old newly minted monarch shuddered at the teasing. “No!”

When Balin’s meetings with Elrond to discuss the coming migration of Erebor’s Dwarves in exile from the Blue Mountains back to their newly-recovered homeland had morphed into official meetings of Rivendell, Erebor, Numenor-in-Exile (represented by Duinhir, Aragorn’s uncle and unofficial regent until Aragorn was old enough to assume leadership of the Dúnedain), and Gandalf over the future of the lands of fallen Arnor and control of the High Pass; and the decision was made that with Bree bursting at the seams, the Enemy driven from Dol Guldur and thus his influence decreased if not eliminated from Mirkwood, and the Dwarves’ almost-certain war with the HighPass Orcs to secure safe passage for the returning exiles, it was time for Gandalf and Elrond to sweep the northern ruins of the lost cities of Arnor clean of the forgotten dead that haunted them and for the Dúnedain to assume leadership of the Men that would be flooding into the now-safe lands by once again raising the standards of the sons of Elendil.

Oh, and young Estel would go from being the future Chieftain of the Rangers to King of Arnor reborn. To say Estel wasn’t happy with the transformation (considering he hadn’t even known he would be Chieftain) would be a _vast_ understatement; and he was only mollified when his uncle, mother, and Elrond all hastily assured him that for the foreseeable future (for Men) to be Arnor’s King _was_ to be a Ranger ... that in a land sparsely populated primarily by Men seeking new farms for their families, most of his time would be in the field protecting them from outside threats. Just as the Dúnedain had done from the shadows through the centuries since Cardolan’s fall, only now in the light.

Sakura laughed at the boy-king’s vehement denial. “So why _were_ you coming here? Didn’t Hamfast tell you we would be joining you soon?”

“Yes, Master Gamgee told me. But you and your husband shouldn’t be on the road from Bree to Fornost alone, so I thought I’d join you.”

Sakura shook her head ruefully. “You really _don’t_ have the king thing down yet, do you? You’re supposed to have more of an entourage than a single bodyguard.”

“Actually, he was alone. I was with Arwen.”

Sakura started at the new voice from the main room, then her eyes widened when the voice’s author stepped into view ... a hauntingly familiar Mannish girl somewhere in her mid-teens. Tall, slim, earth-colored hair in a braid with a tiny Dwarf warrior’s braid hanging in front of one ear, dressed in green and brown leathers styled after those worn by Lake-town’s woodsmen, fletched ends of arrows and unstrung bow limb peeking over her shoulders, sword and knife on opposite hips ... she moved almost with the smooth glide of an Elf.

Wiggling for Arwen to let her down, Sakura dropped to the floor and stepped toward the newcomer. “Tilda? Is that you?”

Tilda smiled and nodded, dropping to one knee and spreading her arms. Sakura instantly took up the invitation, throwing herself into the embrace of Bard’s youngest daughter.

Finally Sakura pushed back out of the embrace to wipe at wet cheeks. “Tilda, don’t thank I’m not happy to see you, but what are you _doing_ here?”

Tilda wiped at her own cheeks, and dropped to the floor to sit cross-legged. “Things ... haven’t been going well at Dale. I mean for me, everyone else is fine. I never really fit into the ‘princess’ pattern everyone was trying to force me into.”

“Everyone?”

“Well ... no, Father and Tauriel didn’t try. Sigrid would hint every once in a while, but she never pushed it. It was everyone _else_ , they all want the glories of Dale reborn and a princess that would rather spend time in the woods than wear gowns and a circlet don’t fit their dreams. It was getting to the point that the training Tauriel was giving me was turning people against her. Then she got pregnant and couldn’t take me to the Greenwood anymore....” She shrugged. “Father remembered your last letter about Fornost being resettled, and offered to make me Dale’s official ambassador to Arnor reborn. It was a hard decision, I’m going to miss them all, miss watching my baby half-brother grow up, but ...” Her eyes dropped. “I was miserable, I felt like I was in a cage all the time. I couldn’t stay.”

“Oh, Tilda ...” Sakura plopped down in her lap and hugged her again. “You never said anything in your letters.”

“What was the point? You couldn’t do anything from so many leagues away.” She returned Sakura’s embrace again with one arm while the other waved out, encompassing the empty walls and room with no furniture. “And you didn’t tell me about _this_.”

“No, I didn’t.” Sakura sighed and wriggled off Tilda’s lap. As she stood up, she said, “I’ll tell you about it when we’re on the road. You don’t mind sleeping out tonight, do you?” she asked, looking around at all three. “I know it would be warmer here, but I don’t know if I can take another night with Bag End empty like this.”

“Of course we don’t,” Tilda agreed as she rose to her feet. She turned to stare at Aragorn and Arwen. “Do we?”

The other two chuckled but shook their heads, and Sakura sighed with relief. “Thank you. Bilbo, why don’t you get changed and — Bilbo?” She looked around, and called, “Bilbo!”

Her husband walked back in, changed from his finest into the leathers he’d worn when with the Rangers. “I thought I’d get changed while you were holding your reunion.”

“Good thinking. Why don’t you run the keys down to Master Gamgee while I get changed and the ponies packed? Considering how he’s likely to rant at you about stealing his son away and handing Bag End to the Sackville-Bagginses, I should have time.” For a moment her face fell. “I just wish he could accept that leaving with us was Hamfast’s idea, and that we tried to talk him out of it. He really isn’t suited to a new settlement surrounded by wilderness.”

Bilbo just pulled her into a hug for a long moment, kissed her briefly, then headed out the front door.

Sakura watched him go, her eyes sad, then forced a smile. “Right, let me get changed and everything packed, and we can be on our way.”

Just as Bilbo was reaching for the knob, someone started hammering on the front door. Bilbo glanced back at them, shrugged, and pulled the door open to reveal a panting Lily, once again dressed in the boy’s clothing she’d taken to wearing. The young girl took one look at Bilbo in his leathers, and gasped out, “I knew it! Sakura, where are —” She glanced around Bilbo and didn’t bother finishing her sentence, pushing past him and throwing herself into Sakura’s arms. “You’re leaving, and you weren’t even going to say goodbye!” she wailed into Sakura’s shoulder.

Sakura sighed. “I said goodbye when your grandmother died,” she replied. “You know your parents haven’t been happy with me for years, there’s no way they would have let me see you once your grandmother was gone. And aren’t you supposed to be at a family dinner right now?”

“I don’t care.”

Sakura sighed again and reluctantly pushed them apart to arm’s length, her hands on Lily’s shoulders. “Dear heart, you _have_ to care. They may not be happy with your plans for the future or me for inspiring them, but they’re _family_. And they really do want what’s best for you, as they see it.”

Lily’s rebellious gaze dropped, and Sakura pulled her into another hug. “As much as I’m going to miss you, I don’t want to see you in Fornost before you’ve reached your tweens. Promise me?” When Lily didn’t respond beyond tightening their hug, Sakura pushed them out to arm’s length again and tilted Lily’s head up with fingers under her chin to look her in the eyes. “If I thought you’d agree I’d ask you to spend a couple more years with the Bounders, the Shire’s southern border would be a safer place to learn the rangering trade, but I’m not going to demand the impossible. So, when you’re twenty?”

Lily glared defiantly at her for a long moment, before her shoulders slumped. “Okay, when I’m a tween. But you’ll write?”

“Of course, dear heart, every season. And I’ll make sure it’s delivered straight to you. Now come on, I need to get changed and packed.”

As the pair disappeared, Arwen watched them go, then glanced at Aragorn and Tilda and smiled. “Another one. She does seem to collect them, doesn’t she?” At the pair’s blank looks, she added, “Children, I mean, that fall in love with her and want to grow up to be just like her.” When the pair blushed, her smile turned into a laugh. “Even me, a child that extended her childhood _much_ too long before she arrived. Let’s get the ponies packed.”

/oOo\

Sakura sighed as she plopped down next to the line of graves on the hill, then looked out across the farms and scattered woods below. Finally she lifted the flute the Dwarves had found for her in Lonely Mountain, and the haunting sound of another of her father’s songs, “The Green Hills of Tyrol,” transformed into a piece for the Navajo flute soared out into the day and to those waiting on their horses and pony at the foot of the hill.

Then after the last notes sang out, she lay back (ignoring the discomfort from Sting stretched diagonally beneath her) and looked up at the afternoon sky. It looked a lot like the sky — the same scattered clouds — of her vision, actually, when she’d shared the same hilltop with Nienna. There was even a storm system rolling in from the west, the others were going to regret their agreement not to wait for the morning before leaving.

“Hey, guys, it’s been a long time. And I’m afraid it’s going be the last time. I’m married now, with a kid on the way. Yeah, Sharon, feel free to laugh it up, I have my family just like you always said would happen and I never relly believed you. But ... I told about how public opinion turned against me after the Rangers announced they were pulling out ...”

And hadn’t _that_ caused a firestorm, when Aragorn’s uncle had asked for a meeting with the Thain, the Master of Buckland, and the Mayor of Michel Delving. And then, once they’d all gathered, announced that due to the resettlement of Fornost almost all of the Rangers that had been guarding the borders of the Shire would be withdrawn, with only enough remaining to train the expanded Bounders to take over the task. The Thain and the Master of Buckland, along with a scattering of the more adventurous (and so less respected) Hobbits, had known of the Rangers, but to the rest of the Shire their existence and self-assumed duty had come as a nasty shock. The need to transform the Bounders from a semi-mob of unpaid volunteers looking for a little excitement by helping out the Shirriffs in their spare time to trained squads paid out of the public purse (with increased taxes) under Shirriffs that found both their duties and authority abruptly expanded had been an even nastier shock. The then-current Shirriffs had resigned almost to a man, and the chaos before the Thain had at the Mayor’s request temporarily assumed the position of First Shirriff and had laid down the new Law had been terrifying.

And thanks to the cloud of suspicion Sakura had already been under thanks to her year-long ‘adventure’ and how ‘odd’ Bilbo had been acting even before her return, there hadn’t been a blessed thing she could do to help. Whispers had seemed to spring up overnight that she was a spy for the Rangers, and had convinced them to abandon the Shire. Mistress Greenhand (Sakura just couldn’t think of her as ‘Daisy’), Rose Sackville, Bilbo, some others had tried to stem the tide, but it had been hopeless.

The worst blow had been when parents had started forbidding their children to listen to her stories, though the children’s outcry had been comforting even if she’d honored their parents’ wishes.

“Yeah, no way are my children going to grow up in this kind of poisonous atmosphere, and it’s better for everyone that I get out of the way — maybe if I stop being the poster child for both sides of the argument, the splits that’s developed in Hobbiton can heal. So Bilbo and me are moving to Fornost. Can you believe it? His family has been living at Bag End for generations, maybe centuries, and he loves me enough to give it all up. There’s nothing I can ever do to deserve that ... to deserve _him_. Never. Of course he’s said the same thing about me, but I guess that’s the point.”

She paused for a moment to luxuriate in that knowledge, a tear trickling down one cheek as she remembered her own parents, the way they would unthinkingly hold hands whenever they were together, the looks they’d shared, the little things they’d done for each other ... even with the knowledge of the inevitable war bearing down on them, the Piper family ranch had been a _happy_ home. Even during the worst of the War, when she had hated her life ... hated _herself_ ... she had clung to the hopeless dream that someday she would have that again — Sharon had made sure of it. And now she did. After all ...

“Home isn’t just a place, it’s people.”

She pushed herself up and rose to her feet then, remembering that last desperate mission, came to attention as formally as she could manage out of uniform. “Thank you. Sharon, for never giving up on me. For all of you, for my life. Sleep well, my friends — I may not be able to visit again, but I’ll never forget you. I’m going have _lots_ of kids, and guess what their names are going to be?” She saluted the graves, held it for a sixty-beat count, snapped her hand down.

Then as the first drops of a spring rain started to fall, she turned away and carefully made her way down the hill to where her future waited for her on their mounts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Perhaps not as polished as it could be, but I was a bit rushed to get it in before I take off on yet more holiday business. The chapter title comes from the _excellent_ song from the TH:TBoFA movie.
> 
> So, the geo-political situation as of TA 2948: Dale has been refounded, with Tauriel married to Bard and their first child born — Dale has a half-Elven heir to the throne. Dwalin has led an army to sweep the Goblins out of the High Pass and he's now in charge of a military garrison and growing colony in the mountains above Rivendell, to safeguard those Dwarves of Erebor-in-Exile that choose to return to their recovered homeland (most of them). Arnor has only just been re-establish, but right now consists of a stockade and a few farms near the grassy hills that cover Fornost Erain, the capital city of first Arnor and then Arthedain (but that's going to change in a hurry). And the One Ring is being kept, unworn, as a memento at the refounded Fornost.
> 
> For the next story, if-and-when I write it, I'm thinking of jumping only seventeen years; it seems appropriate that Sakura be fifty when that kicks off. (To give an idea of the timeframe, Theoden would be seventeen and Denethor II thirty-five) And while the end goal will be the same — get the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom — the details will be _very_ different.


End file.
